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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



OSIRUS 

AND OTHER POEMS 



JOSEPH J. COUGHLIN 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 
1911 



Copyright, 1911, by Joseph J. Coughlin 



All Rights Reserved 






qll 



The Gorham Press, Boston U S. A 



©CU286 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Osirus 7 

The Cotter 's Sabbath Morn 28 

The Legend of Miser Ben 41 

The Butterfly and the Bee 55 

Retirement of General Miles 65 

Custer s Last Rally 72 

John Storm, the Outlaw 88 

The Corporal's Tale of Gettysburg IOO 

How the Deacon Saved the Day no 

When I Am Dead 118 

Memory 120 

Humanity 123 

May 126 

Treachery of Monteith 128 

The Sword of Bunker Hill 131 

My Bessie 134 

Malvern Hill 136 

Love's Dream 139 

A Dream and a Vision 140 

Melancholy 142 

The Old Cow Path .... 143 

Retrospection 146 

Folly 147 

Death of Napoleon 148 

When Thou Hast Grown Old 151 

To a Wild Red Rose 153 

Weary 154 

To Margaret 155 

Life's Noblest Path 156 

Erin 157 

Vain Hope 158 

Ponder 1 59 

The Exile 160 

My Litle Sweetheart 162 



OSIRUS 

In the purple dusk of even when the twilight soft 
is falling 
And the lengthening Autumn shadows in the 
sombre forest loom, 
When the zephyr's mournful whispers in low ca- 
dences are calling 
And daylight fast is merging into solemnness and 
gloom, 
Sits the old Osirus crooning o'er sad youthful visions 
fleeting 
Through his aged brain, as wearily bows he his 
hoary head, 
While ceaselessly within his breast his withered 
heart is beating 
As the last spark slowly dying in a watch-fire that 
is dead. 

Stands before him like a monument of youthful 
scenes departed 
Nature's vast primeval . forests, clad in Spring- 
tide's mild array; 
And misty tears of sorrow to his weary eyes have 
started 
As hushed in drowsy silence fades the grandeur 
of the day. 
Ah! his vision oft has wandered to that vain and 
hapless region 
Where manhood first had wakened in a breast 
that knew no fear; 
Where his youthful joys were many, and his manly 
woes a legion. 
All have come to taunt his presence now, when 
lurking Death is near. 
7 



There, a stripling, tall and slender of the Massa- 
chusetts nation, 
Had he wandered through their tangled depths 
full many moons ago. 
A perfect type of redman, noblest of his God's crea- 
tion, 
Beloved by all his people, hated by his people's 
foe 
Fleet of foot was he and agile as the deer upon the 
border, 
Swift his arrow as the lightning from the darken- 
ing clouds above. 
Fled the foe before his tomahawk in fear and wild 
disorder; 
Trained his noble breast to mercy and his yearn- 
ing heart to love. 

In the wild haunts of the woodland oft his nimble 
footsteps roaming 
Startled from their drowsy slumbers weird and 
savage beasts of prey, 
Whose burning orbs gleamed baleful in the twi- 
light's dusky gloaming 
As their angry cries re-echoed in the softly dying 
day. 
Swift upon its journey fleeting from his ever faith- 
ful quiver, 
Sped the arrow always ready at the youthful 
brave's command; 
One mighty upward motion, one long convulsive 
shiver, 
And another foe had fallen by that strong, un- 
erring hand. 

Thus the Springtime of existence charming years of 
youthful gladness, 
Like the breath of cherished memories onward 
sped in golden flight. 



Ah ! how swiftly doth our pleasures yield to mourn- 
ing grief and sadness 
Like the waning of the summer moon in starlit 
fields of night; 
Or the blaze of autumn glory o'er the western hills 
descending, 
Scarcely hallowing with saintly touch the part- 
ing realms of day, 
Ere the hollow roar of thunder mars the day's de- 
lightful ending 
And the darkening clouds are riven by the light- 
ning's maddening play. 

In the golden gleam of sunset by the Shawsheen's 
murmuring water, 
In the years that are but memory now he wan- 
dered long ago 
To woo the gentle Ora, Narragansett's fairest 
daughter, 
Beloved of young Osirus, yet the offspring of his 
foe. 
There their simple troth was plighted mid the pale 
declining splendor 
Of the long autumnal twilight rich in Indian 
Summer skies; 
When the lovers' ardent glances and words so soft 
and tender 
Boast their answer in the radiant glow of the 
dusky maiden's eyes. 

Yea; the sturdy son of Indu, famed for deeds of 
strength and daring, 
Had won the Princess Ora, though by her father 
hated. 
When the dark primeval forest Autumn's sober garb 
was wearing, 
And the wooing thrush of summer long since had 
happily mated, 

9 



Then didst Osirus harken to a voice that spake 
unto him 
In the rushing of the north wind borne along the 
the sombre night. 
"Wed; for thou must hasten," spake the subtle 
voice that knew him ; 
"Take thy bride and hurry northward ; follow- 
fast the eagle's flight." 

But he heeded not the warning, for his home to 
him was dearer 
Than the thought of fleeing northward as a cow- 
ard in the night. 
Thus as he sat and pondered that warning voice 
grew nearer: 
"Take thy Ora! Hasten northward, ere her 
dead form blast thy sight." 
Still he lingered on, unhappy for the spirit voice 
distressed him, 
Yet he could not bear his people thus to scorn 
his craven heart. 
So while he sat and listened, the more his grief op- 
pressed him 
Till the musings deep within him forced the bit- 
ter tears to start. 

By the Shawsheen's banks he wandered as the twi- 
light shades were falling, 
And his heart had grown heavy with the thoughts 
of constant strife; 
While across the gloomy waters that voice was ever 
calling: 
"Take thy Ora! Hasten northward if you wish 
her for a wife." 
Rose his boyhood now before him as a dream he e'er 
would cherish, 
And the scenes of youthful pleasure flashed before 
his longing view. 

10 



Must he leave the haunts that knew him ; must they 
all forever perish 
With the dawning of the morrow when the eagle 
northward flew! 

Ah! the thought was agonizing, and his nimble feet 
grown weary 
Sank he down in peaceful slumber where the 
winds were crooning low, 
While above him gleaming sadly in their clouded 
fields so dreary, 
The myriad eyes of heaven watched him with 
a tender glow. 
Long he slept, and sad his dreams were as the blight 
of heaven falling 
On all that had been rendered, ah! so pleasing 
to her eyes 
From the dale of verdant beauty where the nightin- 
gale was calling, 
To the gilded autumn woodlands where fair Na- 
ture rarest lies. 

Or, as the hand of Winter, stretching forth its icy 
fingers, 
Chills the atmosphere of autumn; mars its soft 
and melting haze. 
Crushing 'neath their grasp infernal the every joy 
that lingers 
In the dying fields of summer, left to soothe the 
longing gaze. 
Or, as the brooding darkness when the day is softly 
waning 
Creeps into the guileless heavens where the crim- 
son sunset lies, 
And from stealthy clouds now forming the wrath 
of God is reigning, 
Where the tempest fierce is raging 'neath the 
stern and threatening skies. 
ii 



Saw he his Ora lying where the Shawsheen deep 
was flowing 
Onward swiftly through the woodland with a 
stern and crimson tide; 
And the gentle face was mangled that once with love 
was glowing, 
While her life's blood fast was ebbing in a tor- 
rent by her side. 
And around her in the forest was a mighty host now 
lying 
Of brave and stalwart redmen, once the nation's 
sturdy pride. 
While the death song weirdly chanted rose in mur- 
murs from the dying 
Ere the pale lips closed forever and each haughty 
spirit died. 

Among the dead and dying could he see familiar fea- 
tures 
Of comrades who had followed him on many a 
weary chase 
On the battleground now lying, bereft, unhappy 
creatures, 
With the mark of the grim tomahawk upon each 
silent face. 
And beside them lay the foemen, yea; the pride of 
Ora's nation, 
In countless numbers fallen by the crimson flow- 
ing stream. 
Could it be that war had dawned upon one mighty 
God's creation, 
Or was it but the fancy of the redman's vivid 
dream ! 

Still on Osirus slumbered, and where the blood like 
water 
Streamed into the flowing river beheld he a fear- 
ful sight. 

12 



The hand of Ora's father embraced his slain daugh- 
ter, 
For the chieftain, too, had fallen in that stern and 
bitter fight. 
His stout arm clutched a dagger, red with his life's 
blood streaming 
From a wound had he inflicted in his massive, 
brawny side. 
And his features stern and rigid with a ghastly light 
were gleaming; 
Thus had Satanta perished ; by his own hand had 
he died. 

As Osirus gazed, he harkened to a sweet voice sadly 
sighing 
Like the murmur of the southwind through the 
branches overhead: 
"Osirus! Oh, Osirus!" was that spirit voice now 
crying, 
And beheld he gentle Ora rising from the field 
of dead. 
Thrice she beckoned to her lover and her voice was 
one of pleading, 
But he answered not for terror still held speech- 
less his tongue. 
His limbs were palsy stricken and he gazed at her 
unheeding, 
While his brave heart, sunk within him, with a 
mortal woe was wrung. 

Thrice again she beckoned sadly and her voice each 
time grew weaker 
As w T ith ghastly step and painful she glided to- 
ward him now. 
But still Osirus moved not and answered not the 
speaker 
While a cold sweat gathered swiftly on the Mas- 
sachusetts' brow. 

13 



With hands outstretched before her gazed she in 
mute appealing, 
Then the stillness for the last time her voice in 
sorrow broke: 
"Oh, Osirus!" still she pleaded and saw he her fig- 
ure reeling, 
While the blood streamed down her bosom in 
mad torrents as she spoke. 

With a mighty cry of horror burst he the spell that 
bound him, 
And wakening from his slumbers, started swiftly 
to his feet. 
'Twas midnight, and the forest in darkness stretched 
around him; 
All was silent save the rippling of the Shawsheen 
in retreat. 
Above him in the heavens was the pale moon slowly 
waning, 
And the laughing stars so tenderly peered from 
the azure skies, 
O'er all the solemn world it seemed a gentle peace 
was reigning, 
And the earth, so calm and tranquil, ne'er was 
fairer to his eyes. 
But that vision had unnerved him and at every 
sound he started, 
E'en the whisper of the night wind filled his soul 
with haunting fear, 
As with slow and stealthy footsteps like the ghost 
of one departed 
Crept he in anguished silence toward his wigwam 
lying near. 
For his heart e'er stout and cheerful was filled 
alas! with sorrow, 
And at every fleeting moment his youthful fear 
grew. 

14 



Was a curse about to blast him ? What would hap- 
pen on the morrow 

If he failed to heed that warning when the eagle 
northward flew? 

Upon the robes beneath him, with a sigh of bitter 
grieving, 
Cast he his restless body and sought again to 
sleep 
E'en as the shades of darkness the morning sky were 
leaving, 
And faintly in its eastern path the sun began to 
creep, 
To and fro upon his pillow tossed he in restless 
fever 
For his mind with woe was heavy and knew he 
no soothing rest. 
He must hasten to his Ora for his absence deep 
would grieve her, 
And fain would he tell that secret locked within 
his stalwart breast. 

For deeply had that vision of his slain love im- 
pressed him 
With the warning that the spirit voice had spoken 
what was true; 
He must hasten with her northward though again 
the thought distressed him, 
Like a base and cringing coward when the eagle 
thither flew. 
In his anguish oft he pictured the just scorn of his 
nation 
As in disgusted silence bore they his shameful 
flight, 
How each sneering face condemned him; how they 
cursed his base creation 
E'en as once they praised his agile foot, his daring 
and his might. 

15 



Ah! how would his sire Indu whom no fear had 

ever daunted, 
Bear the stern, unhappy tidings of his cherished 

son's disgrace. 
He, whose youthful strength and cunning had he 

often proudly vaunted 
With the deep love of a father before his stalwart 

race. 
Passing years and bitter hardships had yielded much 

of sorrow 
To the aged and withered Indu, once a young and 

sturdy brave; 
And from his youthful offspring alone sought he to 

borrow 
Pride to cheer his tottering footsteps toward the 

dreary, yawning grave. 

Yea; Osirus was his idol and now when worn and 
weary 
With life's cares about him falling as leaves on 
barren ground, 
Must the fretful years of old age e'er to him be 
rendered dreary 
In the pursuit of a happiness that never could 
be found. 
Must the son on whom he lavished all a parent's 
fond caresses 
Taint the honored name of Indu with a deep and 
foul disgrace? 
Must he live to bear the burden of a thought that 
e'er distresses; 
Yea, the memory of dishonor wrought by him 
upon his race. 

Thus Osirus mused in sorrow for loved he his father 
dearly 
E'en as in the early autumn longed he so, to de- 
part 

16 



On the hunt beyond the Shawsheen held by his 
people yearly, 
And his conscience spurned the deed he knew 
would break his sire's heart. 
But loved he also Ora to the verge e'en of distrac- 
tion, 
And had not that spirit warning bade him take 
her for a wife? 
He would go; aye, let his people upbraid him for 
his action 
Ah! his love to him was dearer than his honor or 
his life. 

But he hestitated sadly and in silence keenly lis- 
tened 
To the sighing of the breezes all round his lonely 
tent, 
Then his manly face grew thoughtful and his eyes 
with fervor glistened 
For a warning shout that moment had the morn- 
ing air rent; 
And ere had he arisen a strange and weird commo- 
tion 
Seized upon his native village while the war chant 
loudly pealed. 
Forgotten were his musings now, as with a brave's 
devotion 
Seized he his trusty weapons and started for the 
field. 

A scene of wildest clamor rose before him as he 
parted 
The stout folds of his wigwam, peering warily 
without. 
High in the lovely heavens the risen sun had 
started, 
And a gentle breeze was wafted from the wood- 
lands to the South. 

17 



But he heeded not the splendor of Aurora's guile- 
less beauty 
For the gathering of his comrades told him of the 
battle near. 
Ever ready as the savage is to do his bounden duty 
Joined he them though his stout heart for the 
first time beat with fear. 

For again saw he that vision and again heard he that 
warning, 
And the thought of pending sorrow filled his 
sinking heart with dread. 
Was he then to see his Ora on this fair and lovely 
morning 
Lying on the field before him' mid the silent ranks 
of dead! 
Hark! upon his ears falling came a cry of weird 
despairing, 
And the death chant rose defiant where a fallen 
comrade lay. 
"Narragansett!" pealed in dying tones from the 
youth of frenzied daring 
Whose discovery of the foeman thus had cost his 
life that day. 

Osirus swayed in horror and his worst fears real- 
izing 
His sturdy features paled unto the ashen hue of 
death. 
O'ercome with deep emotion and tortures agoniz- 
ing 
Paused he in mutest terror for a palsy held his 
breath. 
While around him in the forest were the dusky foes 
now fighting, 
And the war-whoops of the living pealed defi- 
ance o'er the dead. 



18 



Alas ! in many a youthful breast the tomahawk was 
blighting 
The future's great ambitions that a sire's love had 
bred. 

Through the treachery of her servant to whom had 
she entrusted 
The story of her tender love was Ora foul be- 
trayed. 
And Satanta straightway hearing with mien stern 
and disgusted 
The torrents of his mighty wrath were in that 
moment swayed. 
Yea! the chieftain's rage was fearful and cursed he 
his gentle daughter 
And swore that ere another moon illumed the 
twilight sky, 
The blood of the Massachusetts would flow like 
running water 
And mingling with the Shawsheen red its current 
deep would die. 

In vain she pleaded with him for his wrath was 
stern and fearful 
And he bade her to her wigwam with the base 
and treacherous maid. 
Thither went the dusky maiden all a-tremble, sad 
and tearful, 
And in that hour of sorrow for her periled lover 
prayed. 
That might he escape the vengeance that Satanta 
foul was scheming 
Deep in his haughty bosom for the hated Indu's 
son, 
And as she prayed Osirus of his fairest love was 
dreaming 
For as in joy, in sorrow, both their hearts beat 
now as one. 

19 



While yet the night grew darkest was Satanta swift 
preparing 
For a bold and sudden move upon his unsuspect- 
ing foes, 
And ere the sun had risen, dark eternal vengeance 
swearing 
Thus led he his tribe in silence where the Shaw- 
sheen peaceful flows. 
But a watchful eye had seen them by the gray light 
of the morning, 
And the purpose of their coming too, the foeman 
swiftly guessed, 
For his loud and ringing war-whoop in an instant 
spread the warning 
Ere the arrow of the hated foe was buried in his 
breast. 

Thus commenced the dreadful battle and as it raged 
around him 
Stood Osirus all unconscious of the weird and 
bitter strife, 
For his tortured brain was weary and a spell of 
sorrow bound him, 
And he heeded not the eager foes who sought to 
take his life. 
From behind the trees unceasing, frowns of bitter 
hatred wearing 
Did the tribesmen of Satanta seek to slay the 
youthful chief. 
But their task proved unavailing for a charmed life 
was he bearing, 
And their arrows passed unheeded where stood he 
bowed down with grief. 

But toward the Massachusetts was an evil form now- 
creeping, 

Whose wicked eyes were gleaming as sprang he 
from tree to tree ; 

20 



And he sneered as to his ears came low sounds of 
bitter weeping, 
But still Osirus heard him not nor raised his eyes 
to see 
That fiend incarnate gliding like a serpent through 
the grasses, 
For his mind was absent roaming and his eyes 
with grieving dim 
Saw but the hateful picture that before his vision 
passes 
Of his Ora rising from the dead and calling forth 
to him. 

Ah! the form has nearer drawn and a murmur deep 
and hateful 
Escapes in bitter accents from the vile Satanta's 
lips. 
Yea ; the black heart bred within him for this wicked 
chance is grateful, 
And his features foully darken as his trusty bow 
he grips. 
But his youthful foe has heard him and to despera- 
tion driven 
Doth his agile foot beneath him leap aside on 
yielding ground, 
And the tree behind him looming shows its rough 
bark deeply riven 
Where the foeman's poisoned arrow hath a harm- 
less mission found. 

With a snarl of disappointment now Satanta for- 
ward dashes 
And his tomahawk is drawn while his brow is 
dark as night. 
Swift e'en as the swiftest of the deadly lightning 
flashes 
Doth he aim, alas! the fatal blow with all his 
stalwart might. 

21 



But again his hand is thwarted for from the forest 
shelter 
Springs a horror-striken maiden between him and 
his foe, 
Ere saw he the graceful figure, a crushing stroke he 
dealt her 
And his fairest daughter, Ora, sank beneath his 
cruel blow. 

For despite the evil scheming of the base, ungrateful 
creature, 
Had Ora lingered watchful through the dreary 
hours of eve. 
In vain she begged her servant, in vain did she be- 
seech her 
Not to thwart the timely warning that her lover 
must receive. 
But the latter was obdurate until at length despair- 
ing 
Feigned she slumber, and her tired head sank 
restless on her breast. 
Long the wicked servant watched her with dark 
and hateful bearing 
But the lovely maiden flinched not beneath the 
bitter test. 

Convinced now that she slumbered her betrayer 
swiftly started 
From the wigwam of her mistress with soft and 
stealthy tread. 
One look cast she behind her ere yet she had de- 
parted 
But Ora's breath was peaceful ; all was silent as 
the dead. 
Far beyond the hapless maiden her footsteps soon 
were dying 
And the latter with a cry of joy sprang swiftly 
to her feet. 

22 



Her face still flushed with weeping; her pallid lips 
still sighing 
Lest her courage should forsake her in the perils 
she must meet. 

Thus had basest treachery yielded to the love of one 
true maiden 
And Ora now with frightened steps set out to 
warn the foe. 
Long ago her sire had started and her breast with 
fear was laden 
Lest she should be too late to foil his unrelent- 
ing blow. 
But her strength was far above the strength of Nar- 
ragansett's daughters 
And her nimble feet sped onward through the for- 
est's trackless path, 
Until paused she in horror by the Shawsheen's 
bloody waters, 
To spring between her sire and the victim of 
his wrath. 

Mute Osirus stood and gazed upon her sadly man- 
gled features, 
And kneeling swiftly by her side bowed down his 
head with shame. 
"Oh, Osirus!" breathed the answer of the fairest 
of God's creatures, 
And her gentle voice in sadness lingered o'er his 
cherished name. 
Softly then he kissed her for saw he that she was 
dying, 
And the tired head fell backward on her lover's 
sturdy arm. 
"Ora! Oh, my Ora!" but she answered not his 
sighing, 
And his pale and ghastly figure started back in 
wild alarm. 

23 



Then her bright eyes closed in sorrow and lay she 
forever sleeping 
While a smile so soft and tender lingered o'er 
her mangled face. 
Sank Osirus down beside her, and the echoes of his 
weeping 
Rose above the shouts of victory from his fiercely 
warring race. 
Long he pleaded with his sweetheart but she an- 
swered not his calling 
For one last caress in sorrow from those tender 
smiling lips; 
Reeled he then in stricken anguish and Satanta 
saw him falling 
In a swoon upon her body as a dagger now he 
grips. 

Evil as Satanta's heart was, loved he his gentle 
daughter, 
And long and bitter grew his wailings o'er the 
body of his child. 
Kneeling down in deepest terror then he passion- 
ately besought her 
To speak unto her father but her dead face only 
smiled. 
Then was his spirit broken as with despairing mo- 
tion 
Raised he and plunged his dagger deep into his 
quivering side, 
And beside the fallen lovers steadfast in their de- 
votion, 
As his life's blood ebbed in torrents, thus the 
haughty chieftain died. 

Still around them raged the battle, and mighty 
deeds of daring 
Were by the Massachusetts there performed that 
fatal morn. 

24 



Though outnumbered by their rivals did their proud 
and haughty bearing 
In that hour of bitterest trial yield the foe but 
deepest scorn. 
Swift their arrows sped and surely while their wild, 
triumphant cheering 
Filled the sombre forest round them with a deep, 
incessant roar, 
And their dead and dying victims lay in heaps about 
the clearing 
Where their tomahawks had stained the fields 
with floods of sickening gore. 

Bereft now of Satanta, slow the Narragansetts 
yielded 
To the sw T ift and stern advances of their late un- 
honored foe, 
Whose tomahawks e'er falling with the strength 
of giants wielded 
Mingled death and mortal fracture with each 
sternly crushing blow. 
Far beyond the Shawsheen's waters whose crimson 
tide was flowing 
With the blood of slain hundreds did the foe- 
man hurl them now. 
While deep within the latter's eyes a hatred stern 
was glowing 
And the light of stalwart victory settled on each 
haughty brow. 

Thence backward soon returning when the bloody 
strife had ended 
Wandered they w T ith hearts elated o'er the dread 
scenes of the fray, 
And their joyous chants of victory with the dying 
groans were blended 
Of the warriors, friend and foeman, that around 
them sadly lay. 

25 



Thus came they on three figures lying silent there 
together, 
And beheld they now in sadness their youthful 
chieftain's face 
And by his beaded wampum and gorgeous glowing 
feather 
Knew they the dread Satan ta, leader of their rival 
race. 

Tears were bred not for the savage but for once 
each spurned his duty 
As with eyes bedimmed with grieving scanned 
they the maiden's face 
Whom they knew as gentle Ora by her fairest youth- 
ful beauty 
Now clasped by 3^oung Osirus in a fond and 
last embrace. 
Tenderly they bore their young chief whose heart 
was faintly beating, 
To the wigwam of his father by the Shawsheen's 
bloody tide, 
And 'neath the mourning shadows soon at even- 
tide retreating, 
Laid they his slain lover and her father side by 
side. 

Many moons have come and vanished and Osirus 
broken hearted 
Has felt his youthful vigor waning with the flight 
of years, 
Yet oft when vainly musing has his memory de- 
parted 
To unhappy scenes of boyhood that fill his eyes 
with tears. 
And e'er when sad and weary, thus a loving impulse 
heeding 
Doth his worn and tottering footsteps pause be- 
side a lonely grave 
26 



In the silence of the forest, broken only by the 
pleading 
Of the winds that sweeping round him e'en as he 
in anguish rave. 

There, kneeling down in sorrow, doth he give away 
to weeping 
And the hot tears streaming swiftly down each 
aged and withered cheek 
Fall in torrents o'er the sacred spot were Ora now 
is sleeping 
And again hears he that warning voice that ne'er 
will cease to speak. 
And oft when straying lonely by the dark and 
gloomy waters 
Doth he dream of one who long ago roamed by 
his sturdy side, 
Of the simple troth there plighted with the fair- 
est of earth's daughters, 
And his wailings long and bitter, echo, o'er the 
silent tide. 



27 



THE COTTER'S SABBATH MORN 

(To the Bard of Afton) 

To thee, oh, bard of Scotia's towering hills! 

In kindred spirit fain would I reply 
To thy sweet verse that oft my bosom thrills, 

That oft has wakened memory's dearest sigh. 

Ah! would that I more skilled in thy rare art 
Could answer thee with musings as divine 

As those which pouring from thy lofty heart, 
Might well obscure this humble verse of mine. 

Like thee, would I applaud in meeker verse 
The cotter's lowly joys, his honest toil, 

The sturdy life that nobly strives to nurse 
The stout and patient tillers of the soil. 

The ans'ring chords within my lowly breast 
Inspired to action by each noble thought 

Of thee, of Scotia's gifted bards, most blest, 
This simple song of mine have aptly wrought. 

In beauty far less honored with thy art, 
Let meekness for its greater faults atone, 

Forgive this lowly effort of a heart 

Whose pulse is beating now as did thine own. 



The gorgeous sun in splendor o'er the hills 
Arises with new tidings of the day, 

His joyous beams o'er babbling brooks and rills 
Seem human almost in their sportive play. 

The early transient vapors of the dawn 

Dissolve their mists in God's descending dew, 

The fragrant buds that earth's vast fields adorn 
Uplift again their drooping heads to view. 
28 



The drowsy notes from endless forests dark 

Freshen with the swift advance of lively dawn, 

The mellowed strains from some inspired lark 

E'en greet departing night with loathing scorn. 

From yonder distant height the eagle soars, 

Grand, majestic in his noble flight, 
Where o'er its rocky bed the torrent roars, 

And dark'ning shadows fade upon the sight. 

The sighing wind now rustles through the trees, 
And all the world is lulled as by some power 

That wafted silent on the fragrant breeze 
Bespeaks the hallowed stillness of the hour. 

Already in the vale where new-born east 
Tinges deep the perfect beauty of the skies, 

The crimson blaze of glory soon increased, 
Reflects the scented raptures of sunrise. 

The nodding beech and gaily plumed flow'ret 
Alike in ecstasy breathe in the scene 

That artist's hand hath never pictured yet, 
And never will while dawn is Nature's queen. 

Ah! fairest Nature hath ne'er surpassing shone, 
The very earth rejoices 'neath the spell, 

While more and more her ling' ring beauties loan 
Their gifted splendors that we love so well. 

The minutes slowly pass and silence still 
Pervades the atmosphere of holy calm, 

The rarest musings of the whippoorwill 

Breathe on the quiet air their sweetest psalm. 

The swiftly-moving current of the day 

Speeds onward with the glim'ring rays of light, 
And darkness grim and solemn fades away 

When God withdraws the gloomy veil of night. 
29 



Like pearls, the dew drops sparkle on the leaves, 
And e'en the petals flush with new born pride, 

The balmy zephyr heals the breast that grieves, 
And man and beast alike in peace abide. 

Thus thoughtful God His loving imprint gives 
To all that now is fairest we behold, 

At His fond touch the flow'ret springs and lives 
That Death would e'en have gathered to his fold. 

Aurora harkens to her lord and king, 

His presence times the grandeur of her play, 

His praise her countless beauties ever sing 
Resplendent in their garb and mild array. 

The blissful stillness soon is marred by cries 
Of waking cattle lowing from their stalls, 

Warned by the blaze of glory in the skies 

That cheerful dawn their wonted strength recalls. 

And once again life's busy scenes revive, 
The pawing beasts their hunger thus reveal, 

And barnyards thronged, with eager patience strive 
To calmly wait the early morning meal. 

The huntsman's horn resounds o'er fields and lakes, 
The dying echoes linger in their flight, 

In sudden dread the startled pheasant wakes 
And vainly soothes her fledgling's shrinking 
fright. 

The verdant fields appearing through the mists 
Are clothed in Springtime's silken robe of green, 

The mountains by Aurora softly kissed 
Faint in the eastern heavens can be seen. 

Bright in the spotless azure overhead 
The risen sun has started on his way 

By God's almighty guidance slowly led 

To where the dimming shadows mark the day. 
30 



To music's sweet, enchanted murmurs lured 
In pastures where his daily task begins, 

The swain's melodious voice is faintly heard 
In morning song that freshened vigor wins. 

The cotter's humble cabin stands aloof 

From fields all tilled and ready for the seed, 

With slightly arched and rudely thatched roof 
That spurns ignoble wealth's penurious greed. 

As high above the sun commands the day, 
And fairest Luna guides her realms at night, 

So on the earth the sturdy cotter's sway 
Provides his nation's stamina with its might. 

E'er daily yielding by his panting toil 

The precious stores of Life's most pressing needs 
With which each year God hath enriched his soil, 

His heart for wanton riches never bleeds. 

His kindly smile, his ever-pleasant word 
Creates a wealth unique in his small sphere, 

His voice complaining scarcely e'er is heard, 

Though Fortune deigns to greet him with a tear. 

With sturdy strength and heart too stout to break 
He crushes 'neath his pride ill fortune's woes, 

With every grief his step new vigor takes, 
And courage is the only fault he knows. 

Ah ! he who yields to misery's baneful end 

Might well regard the world in keen disgrace, 

To see his lofty efforts thus descend 

And viewed with grim dishonor by his race. 

Snug in the peaceful vale where he was born, 
Where e'en his parents passed declining days, 

His humble cabin greets the smiling morn, 
Mute in its sturdy gift of endless praise. 

31 



Beyond the village, hushed in Death's embrace 
The voices are that soothed his prattling years; 

Long since their tottering steps resigned the race 
Of hateful age 'mid thorny path of tears. 

For those beloved now sleeping in their graves 
O'er whose departed forms in varying moods 

Summer breezes blow or Winter's fury waves, 
Lost in his grief the lowly peasant broods. 

When Spring reclaims the lately frozen ground 
And verdure freshens fields once brown and bare, 

At some respected grave the swain is found, 
And sadness marks his hapless sojourn there. 

When Summer breezes, mild with rare perfume, 
Sweep scented raptures o'er the joyful land, 

The peasant strays in sorrow to the tomb 
With some small offering borne in his hand. 

When Autumn turns the falling leaves to gold 
And warnings come of Winter's blust'ring snows, 

His sturdy form and courage brave the cold, 
As forth again on his sad quest he goes. 

When Winter's fury breaks upon the earth 

And silv'ry mantles deck the bleak brown fields, 

He leaves the cheerful warmth of his snug hearth 
And shiv'ring at the sodden graves he kneels. 

Oh! meek and humble virtue of the poor, 
Viewed in the face of all that is sublime, 

Well might thy perfect morals still endure 
Against the wasting ravages of time. 

The Sabbath chimes ring out upon the air 
With pious accents more and more sincere, 

Conveying thrills of mute, inspired prayer 
In passive strains to each attending ear 
32 



As in the distance dies the vibrant tone, 

A holier calm invades the murmuring breeze, 

The peasant late to toiling hardships prone 
Now sinks in silent worship to his knees. 

His weekly labor now is at an end, 
His soul rejoices at the burdens done, 

His thoughts in sacred channels constant bend 
That God's benignant love has ever won. 

E'en in the verdant fields and rural meads 
The angelus, with reverence deep, is heard, 

Its sacred stroke to every peasant reads 
A worthy summons in the gospel's word. 

'Tis Sabbath morn, and rising from his task 
He leaves the straying flock to wander on, 

While he the grace of God doth humbly ask 
To grant, perhaps, a happiness now gone. 

Returning o'er the fields where early youth 
Had grown apace to manhood's sturdy pride, 

His footsteps tread the silent path of truth 
With guileless heaven for a friend and guide. 

Forsaken not though grief should weigh him down, 
By virtue strained yet loving virtue still 

He quells the deep'ning shadows of the frown 
That taunts the iron firmness of his will. 

Oh! modest virtue, blessed are they who shield 
Thy gentle passion deep within their breasts; 

The man to tempting evil ne'er will yield 

While on his brow thy hallowed presence rests. 

Ah! like the smile of heaven's dawning skies 
Thy gracious splendor beams in every face, 

Where innocence in artless fashion lies, 
The synonym of lowly, cultured grace. 

33 



How different would this erring nation be 

If hearts that mould it fain would humbly ask 

Thy sweetest blessing, yearning strength to see 
The hidden faults of each allotted task. 

Alas! the fickle conscience of the world 
E'er changeful as the phases of the moon, 

Oft slinks when scornful lips are swiftly curled, 
Or smiles when gracious virtue deigns a boon. 

The country folk, when gathered from the church, 
Unite in festive gambols on the lawn ; 

The eager lover then begins his search 

For her, with whom he would his arm adorn. 

In native finery decked to please the eye 
The flirting damsel trips upon the green, 

Her luring glance repays each ardent sigh 

Of youthful swains who grace the charming 
scene. 

A wealth of hidden coyness in her glance 
Provokes the softest passion of the heart, 

With ling' ring hopes perchance the swains advance 
To test the melting prowess of her art. 

Ah ! happy he who leads her to the dance, 
Now slowly forming on the sportive lawn, 

Aloof his rivals stand and frown askance, 
Or nobly strive to greet the twain with scorn. 

With shy, averted eyes the fair coquette 
Doth soothe the jealous envy of their rage, 

And charmed, they pray that fickle chance may yet 
In their behalf a winning contest wage. 



34 



Oh, rural pastimes; choicest gift of God, 
The fond delight of every boyish heart, 

That every cotter's breast would fain applaud 
Though age, perchance, hath dimmed his youth- 
ful art. 

The merry gliding figures of the green, 

The lover's ardent glance, the maiden's scorn, 

The bashful swain, affecting careless mien ; 
These are the treasures of the Sabbath morn. 

Apart, the village folk, who once were young, 
Enjoy the rapt expression of each face, 

And words of praise arise on every tongue 

To laud their children's youthful skill and grace. 

Amid scenes like these their hearts have grown old, 
What fairer spot to spend declining years 

Than here, where age doth sweeter joys unfold 
To stem the tide of grief's unhappy tears. 

Though age denies the effort that partakes 

Of sports that know no stauncher friends than 
they, 

Still in their hearts that soothing pleasure wakes 
To live in memory o'er each distant day. 

To sit around and view the graceful feet 
Glide through the mazes of Virginia Reel, 

The swain's impulsive step, the maiden sweet, 
Denying him the kiss he fain would steal. 

To yield the rapt applause that oft would greet 
Their own accomplished efforts in the dance 

Which vain old age would render far more neat, 
Such was the wealth of envy in each glance. 



35 



Good natured envy, yielding to the touch 

Of pensive memory's sweet and dearest thought, 

The simple joys they had revered so much 

Which in their hearts a ling'ring joy hath 
wrought. 

The buxom matron hears again that voice 
Of earnest pleadings falling on her ear 

When she of many a youthful swain the choice 
Was wont to scorn each jealous rival's sneer. 

Ah! he who sits in silence by her now 
Then led her all triumphant to the dance, 

The light of victoiy on his stalwart brow, 
And in his rear a comrade's frowning glance. 

For he whose youthful locks have turned to gray, 
Whose face is marred by honest toil and care, 

Was sturdiest of the swains that distant day, 
And she, the fairest of the village fair. 

How lovers, then, admired her charming grace, 
Her dainty foot, the cynosure of all, 

The depth of winning sweetness in her face 

That well might boast full many a swain's down- 
fall. 

Oh! who could spurn those hallowed days of bliss, 
Of priceless treasures borrowed from above; 

The raptures of the lover's stolen kiss, 
The manly voice that pleaded for her love. 

And he who won her for his loving wife 
How well doth he recall that distant scene, 

The crowning triumph of his youthful life 

When, her chosen lord, he led her o'er the green. 



36 



Again he sees before his ardent gaze 

The sneering frowns rejected lovers cast, 

Again he hears admiring words of praise 

That older folk had showered as they passed. 

How well doth he recall her blushing face, 
The tender glow within those downcast eyes, 

Her answer to the lover's fond embrace 

Spoke not in words the meaning of her sighs. 

But who has ever loved that could not learn 
To solve the hidden meaning of a sigh, 

What tender glance but could at once discern 
The raptures of that shyly downcast eye. 

No sweeter tale of love was ever told 

Than where demurest silence hovers near, 

For love requires but lovers to unfold 
The meaning of a look, a sigh, a tear. 

Thus had he learned to read her tender glance, 
That outward coquetry long had sought to hide, 

When gliding through the mazes of the dance 
Her coyness would his efforts have defied. 

Less stauncher hearts than his had played and lost 
The ardent game of love upon the green, 

And many a swain had mourned the day he crossed 
The guileless pathway of the village queen. 

But his was not the heart to meekly yield 
To love's allotted task but poorly done, 

At the shrine where many a baffled swain had 
kneeled 
He, too, had knelt but he alone had won. 

Long had he conquered ere a blushing bride 
She sought the shelter of his sturdy arms, 

And o'er their native village far and wide 
Rang praises of the youthful couple's charms. 

37 



Then was he happiest of all country swains 
Who long had worshipped at her artless shrine, 

For those, she had but one reply that pains, 
For him, that love that e'er is called divine. 

E'en as he sits and views the gorgeous scene 
Of youth and splendor on the village lawn, 

His memory wanders back to this same green 
But to a distant and a happier morn 

When his weekly labors drawn to a close 

And dressed with every outward show of care, 

His footstep o'er its wonted pathway goes 
To greet the fairest of all damsels there. 

To see the blush that mantled her fair cheek 

When beloved of all his sturdy form drew near, 

To wait in ecstasy that voice to speak 

That he would go full many a mile to hear. 

The memory of each youthful art and charm 
Invokes the soft caresses of his tongue, 

As he clasps the hand now resting on his arm, 
And smoothes the faded locks to him e'er young. 

She, too, is dreaming fondly o'er the days 

When e'en as now she wooed his fond embrace, 

That sweet expression still is in her gaze, 
That rests its hallowed presence on his face. 

That loving smile, so tender, in her eyes 

Beams with the same deep pathos as of yore, 

When he at first with ardent words and sighs 
Her countless charms had soon learned to adore. 

Thus where two loving hearts have long grown old, 
Each shares the other's every thought, its pain, 

The tender love that never has grown cold 
Enacts its youthful conquest o'er again. 

38 



Ah! what is more endearing to the eye 
Than thus behold the couple old and gray 

Pass on through life still scorning that vain sigh 
That fain would mar life's last declining day. 

Oh, happy creatures, freed from care and strife, 
Fain would the saddened heart like their's rejoice, 

To die amid the scenes of youthful life. 
To hear again each dead familiar voice. 

To have the dying brow smoothed by the hand 
Of her thou wooed and won so long ago, 

To feel not, when about to leave this land, 
The ling'ring sadness that too many know. 

To die as we had lived, in gentle peace, 
Surrounded by the friends to us most dear ; 

To feel when life is then about to cease 

The soothing strength of each unuttered tear. 

The dancing o'er, the maidens soon depart, 
Each leaning on the arm of some stout swain 

Whose whispered amorous pleadings woo the heart 
Of her who fills his own with anxious pain. 

And silence, sweeter for the simple joys 
Now ceased, upon the gay and festive lawn, 

Replaces all the laughter and the noise 

Of youthful hearts to humble lodgings gone. 

Afar, the distant echoes of the horn 

Bearing tidings of the happy noonday meal, 

Upon the vagrant breezes of the morn 
In low and rapturous accents softly steal. 



39 



Around the table grouped in ardent prayer, 
The village folk in pious accent kneel, 

With one accord, the humble gathering there, 
Give thanks for all the silent praise they feel. 

Oh! sweet and humble blessings of the poor, 
The meeker hoard of his, the cotter's, life, 

Long may thy rays for him through time endure, 
Through all the hidden pangs of earthly strife. 



THE LEGEND OF MISER BEN 

Come, gather near if you would hear 

The weird and awful story, 
How Deacon Post waylaid a ghost 

In search of fame and glory. 

'Twas in sixty-five, (lands sakes alive 
How swift the years are flying!) 

That Miser Ben, three score and ten, 
Lay on his rough couch dying. 

Now it came to pass as it will, alas; 

Oftimes when death is nearest, 
A sudden pain plagued old Ben's brain 

And forced out what was dearest. 

He thought of death and his rasping breath 
Straight threatened dire disaster; 

Again he thought and a change it wrought 
For his breath came fast and faster. 

'Twas of Silas Green, a man so mean 
Who owed him still a pound, sir; 

So despite his pain, with might and main, 
He vowed Si was a hound, sir. 

And what is more, he roundly swore 
While wrathful tears flowed, sir, 

He would not go to the realms below 
Till Si paid what he owed, sir. 

Therefore enraged, a war he waged 
With all the hosts of death, sir, 

While the town amazed in wonder gazed 
And sought his latest breath, sir. 



4i 



Thus time amassed till weeks had passed 

And still he clung to life, sir; 
No kindly friend to cheer his end 

Or soothe the breast of strife, sir. 

He had no wife and his lonely life 
And lonelier cot seemed appalling, 

As doth the house without a spouse 
And playful children calling. 

No childish mirth yet marred his hearth 

Or shook the oaken rafter, 
For what cared he for prattling glee 

And children's foolish laughter. 

No deed he'd done which ever won 

The praise of those around him ; 
Mean to the last, with a darker past, 

Thus his fellow townsmen found him. 

And thus he died, for sorely tried 

Despite his battle strong, sir, 
His waning strength succumbed at length 

And he went to join the throng, sir. 

The throng of men who daily sin 

And plot to rob their neighbors, 
Till with quaking breath they wait for death 

To end their evil labors. 

But before he went, an hour he spent, 

If all they say be true, sir, 
Upbraiding Green for being so mean. 

And vowed his death he'd rue, sir. 

Yea; in angry tones between his groans, 

So said Matilda Gray, sir, 
He swore that Si, if he must die, 

Would be haunted night and day, sir. 

42 



This fearful threat caused Si to fret 

Till believe me I'll be bound, sir, 
With a shocking curse, he took his purse 

And went to pay that pound, sir. 

Alas! old Ben was departed then 
Or I doubt if aught could slay him ; 

He would have better grew if he only knew 
Si was hastening on to pay him. 

And as for Si, he wondered why 
And wherefore Ben should die, sir, 

When that precious pound was gaining ground 
In the race to charm his eye, sir. 

But t'wixt you and I, the skinflint Si 

Went on his way rejoicing; 
His conscience free, so at least thought he, 

And his happy fortune voicing. 

And all the time in a warmer clime 

With energy most provoking 
The soul of Ben in its prison pen 

Was Satan's wrath invoking. 

In yonder glen at the hour of ten 

In the morning, Deacon Winn, sir, 

His lone grave made with his trusty spade, 
And straightway laid him in, sir. 

No mourning prayer instilled the air, 

No friend was there to sigh, sir, 
No mate he had to thus feel sad, 

No tear to dim the eye, sir. 

His humble mound evoked no sound, 

No stress of passioned grieving, 
None stopped to pray, all hasted away, 

The corpse behind them leaving. 

43 



'Twas a lonely spot, not soon forgot 
By those who chanced that way, sir, 

In the dead of night when the haunting sprite 
Was wont to rise and stray, sir. 

The whitened bones that 'neath the stones 

Remained of those no more, sir, 
Would often rise 'neath midnight skies 

So ran traditions' lore, sir. 

And nightly revel with the devil 

In the witchlike dance, sir, 
Invoking charms with fleshless arms, 

And death in every glance, sir. 

Around about, no chant or shout 

To grace the whole proceeding, 
They crossed the earth in ceaseless mirth 

Approaching dawn unheeding. 

Till a flash of light dispelled the night, 
Then away they went in haste, sir, 

Thus rosy east broke up the feast 
And welcomed scenes more chaste, sir. 

Each phantom shape sought swift escape 

To his den in wrath retreating, 
They feared the sight of the morning light 

And frowned at such a meeting. 

Thus, 'neath the gloom of the darkening moon 
Each night from twelve entranced, sir, 

Till dawn of day broke up their play 
The demons danced and danced, sir. 

And more and more the peasants swore 

Who lived close by the glen, sir, 
Their actions vile increased the while 

Since the taking off of Ben, sir. 

44 



Some e'en who passed where the spirits massed 

In the eerie hours of night, sir, 
Declared the scene to be rendered green 

By the flickering of a light, sir. 

A ghastly green, my friend, I ween, 

To cast no doubt a spell, sir, 
On those who look upon the spook 

Let loose from foulest hell, sir. 

And 'neath this light, one stormy night 

A neighbor, by my faith, sir, 
Saw miser Ben and the phantom men 

When the hour was growing late, sir. 

Hand in hand with the ghastly band 

In endless fashion seeming, 
The miser danced, and anon he glanced 

At his grave 'neath the green light gleaming. 

Then he swiftly turned and as swift discerned 

The neighbor peering sly, sir; 
His sockets blazed as he foully gazed, 

Though he had no mortal's eye, sir. 

'Twas an eerie eve you may believe, 
Though I quite forget the date, sir, 

The miser glared and the peasant stared 
A-trembling for his fate, sir. 

Not a blessed word they spoke nor heard, 

Not a sound escaped, I vum, sir, 
Still the phantom glowered while the mortal cow- 
ered, 

And thought his hour had come, sir. 



45 



First one, then two, thus the number grew 

Of the eyeless sockets blazing 
Like a brooding storm on the prowler's form 

In a manner most amazing. 

The wonder grew of the phantom crew, 
As they glared at the ghastly face, sir; 

And a sneering scorn was that moment born 
And as swiftly grew apace, sir. 

The dancing ceased and their hate increased 
While yet his face they scanned, sir, 

In the dreary hush, they made a rush 
For the mortal all unmanned, sir. 

But the cock crew hard in a neighboring yard, 

And his cry was twice repeated, 
His wild alarms dispelled their charms 

Ere their dire aim was completed. 

In wild retreat, their scampering feet 
Made for the looming graves, sir, 

'Mid rattle of bones and hollow groans 
Like a band of yelling braves, sir. 

And all was dark, for the demons' lark 

Had ceased upon the lawn, sir, 
The green light fled o'er the slumbering dead 

In the gray streaks of the dawn, sir. 

A great relief replaced the grief 

Of the quaking mortal man, sir, 
To his heels he took with a startled look 

And like the devil, ran, sir. 

All out of breath but saved from death, 

With courage greatly daunted, 
Like a startled deer dismayed by fear 

Fled he with vision haunted. 

4 6 



And far and wide o'er the countryside 
He spread the awful tale, sir, 

Wise men were dazed and all amazed, 
While every cheek grew pale, sir. 

Thus gossip grew of the phantom crew 
Who each and every night, sir, 

With miser Ben danced in the glen 
Round a green and ghastly light, sir. 

Now Silas Green heard of this scene 

And quickly felt alarm, sir; 
His haunting debt was not cancelled yet 

And he feared Ben's wicked charm, sir. 

For had he not in a frenzy wrought 

Sworn on his dying bed, sir, 
That his ghost would rise where his body 1 

In the City of the Dead, sir. 

To haunt his foe where e'er he'd go 

To fill his life with warning 
And beset his way the livelong day 

And from early night till morning? 

Si soon lost weight at a fearful rate, 

His courage often vaunted 
Now changed to fear at the presence near, 

And he walked like someone haunted. 

The neighbors knew and marveled, too, 
And swore by this and that, sir, 

That old Nick and Ben had left their den 
And ne'er would wander back, sir. 

Till Si had paid the debt he made 
With interest, too, compound, sir, 

If not to Ben, to his family then, 
If they could e'er be found, sir. 

47 



Alas! poor Si did nobly try 

In sunshine and in rain, sir, 
To purge his sin in the next of kin 

But his search was all in vain, sir. 

Ben had no friends to whom amends 

Thus might be safely made, sir; 
No one was found to whom that pound 

Could be with honor paid, sir. 

So here and there in blank despair 
Knowing not which way to go, sir, 

He roamed the earth devoid of mirth, 
Ah ! his life was one of woe, sir. 

With distracted air and vacant stare 

Oft down the village street, sir, 
And up again, in constant pain, 

He walked with footsteps fleet, sir. 

Until at length he sadly went 

Unto old Deacon Post, sir, 
Who roundly vowed with gesture proud, 

That he would lay the ghost, sir. 

But 'twas agreed, that ere this deed 
Should tax his mind profound, sir, 

To give up the search and to the church 
Pay the much-annoying pound, sir. 

Thus, on his knees and ill at ease, 

Si gave the wretched note, sir; 
The deacon's fee, but twixt you and me 

To give it he was loath, sir. 

For he loved his gold with joy untold 

Not unlike the miser Ben, sir, 
And when forced to pay, so the neighbors say, 

He blubbered there and then, sir. 

48 



If I reckon right 'twas such a night 

As this is, dark and eerie, 
A blinding rain beat, 'gainst the pane, 

And winds sighed, cold and dreary, 

That the deacon chose to meet his foes, 

And with Bible in his hand, sir, 
To do or die, he went with Si 

To disperse the wicked band, sir. 

With stealthy tread toward the slumbering dead 

The Pious couple started, 
To bound with fright at each whisper light 

That either's lips had parted. 

The lightning flashed ; the thunder crashed ; 

The branches swayed and tossed, sir, 
The shadows leered and ghosts appeared 

With arms akimbo crossed, sir. 

Uncanny sounds from the narrow mounds 

Let loose it seemed from hell, sir, 
Rose on the gale with a ghastly wail, 

While the rain in torrents fell, sir. 

Through the lashing trees swaying in the breeze 

Bellowed the roar of thunder, 
Till it seemed the storm in its awful form 

Would rend the earth asunder. 

The darkening sky unnerved poor Si ; 

The scene was truly awful ; 
'Twas just the night for the demon sprite 

And his actions, too, unlawful. 

To ease his task, from a handy flask 

The deacon took a nip, sir, 
Not from habit's sake, but to stronger make 

His nerves for their trying trip, sir. 

49 



The gurgling sound a listener found 
In the lean and watchful Si, sir, 

And the flask changed grips and wet Si's lips 
In the twinkling of an eye, sir. 

Thus fortified they onward hied, 

A-stumbling o'er the stones, sir, 
Their path beset with new terrors yet 

And weird and awful groans, sir. 

With a howl of pain in the blinding rain 
The deacon stubbed his toe, sir; 

In the darkness there, Si grabbed his hair 
For he took him for a foe, sir. 

Headlong they pitched like a twain bewitched 
And they fought both long and hard, sir; 

They clutched and clawed and bit and gnawed 
In the cemetery yard, sir. 

The demons leered and foully cheered 
Till they split their sides, I ween, sir; 

As well they might, for such a sight 
They ne'er before had seen, sir. 

What the deacon said will ne'er be read; 

'Twould not look well in verse, sir, 
But often Si, with a knowing eye, 

Would imitate the curse, sir. 

Alas! poor Si got a swollen eye, 

But he banged the deacon's jaw, sir; 

In a whirl of fists and squirms and twists 
They fought a splendid draw, sir. 



50 



The deacon swore as he madly tore 

At his crony's tuft of hair, sir, 
Si shrieked with pain but all in vain 

As he felt his head grow bare, sir. 

A frightful roar and all was o'er, 

They bounded to their feet, sir, 
While the echoes passed from the fearful blast 

And slowly did retreat, sir. 

A greenish light now held their sight 
And they shook like stricken men, sir, 

While round and round on the sodden ground 
The wraiths danced in the glen, sir. 

A familiar form loomed in the storm, 
Who it was Si quickly guessed, sir : 

And he turned about with a frightened shout, 
And ran like one possessed, sir. 

O'er moor and fen from the haunted glen 
With the speed of a startled deer, sir, 

On and on he fled from the ghostly dead, 
And his shrieks rang far and near, sir. 

Close in his rear, unmanned by fear, 

The deacon stumbled after, 
While a clamor rose from his phantom foes 

'Mid peals of ghastly laughter. 

Out of the night a something white, 

Uncanny in detail, sir, 
With utmost speed like a valiant steed 

Set out upon his trail, sir, 

And drawing near, full in his rear 

Struck like a cannon ball, sir; 
For mercy crying, with coat tails flying, 

Thus did the deacon fall, sir. 

5i 



Down; down, he went, his trousers rent, 
The thing still on his track, sir, 

Till with a thud in the yielding mud 
He landed on his back, sir. 

A slanting wall arising tall 

Foiled every effort made, sir, 
To clamber out from the yawning mouth 

Into which his steps had strayed, sir. 

While o'er his head with a prancing tread 
And eyes that glowed with hate, sir, 

The pursuing foe glared down below 
To taunt him with his fate, sir. 

A stinging pain coursed through his brain 

Another down his spine, sir, 
In sad despair he rent his hair 

And started in to whine, sir. 

The demon glared; the lightning flared 

A-casting weird reflections 
Where the deacon lay, awaiting day 

Hemmed in in all directions. 

The fearful strain unnerved his brain 
Till upon my honor's word, sir, 

His frenzied roar for a mile or more 
Soon could be plainly heard, sir. 

But his worn strength gave out at length, 
Unconscious soon he fell, sir; 

'Mid lurid gleams and shrieks and screams 
Let loose from foulest hell, sir. 

In the morning gray, so traditions say, 
With stealthy step and slow, sir, 

Si in their rear, a-quake with fear, 
The neighbors sought the foe, sir. 

52 



With pitchfork keen and scythe agleam 
A valiant front they made, sir, 

One with a rake, prepared to make 
A gallant charging raid, sir. 

The searchers brave in an open grave 

A-clutching at his throat, sir, 
The deacon found, while above the ground 

Strayed neighbor Haskin's goat, sir, 

The deacon raved, and begged and craved 
For mercy; ah! 'twas sad, sir, 

The awful fright of that hideous night 
Had driven him stark mad, sir. 

Though questions grew of the phantom crew 
His tale he scarce could tell, sir; 

With oil and balm they broke the charm 
But 'twas weeks ere he was well, sir. 

E'en to this day, so the neighbors say 
Who live out by the glen, sir, 

Oft in the night they see the light 
And the phantom dancing men, sir. 

While round and round each gloomy mound 
And o'er the haunted lawn, sir, 

Their demon feast defies the east 
Until the peep-o-dawn, sir. 

But strange, I ween, this ghastly scene 
With all its haunting strife, sir, 

Wrought a worthy deed for it made Si lead 
A good and upright life, sir. 

Now for pity's sake, dear reader, make 
Of this weird tale the most, sir, 

For by my fate, be it soon or late, 
There's harm in laying ghosts, sir. 

53 



THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE 

Said the butterfly unto the bee, 
"You cannot fly as fast as me." 

"Perhaps," returned the busy bee, 
"I have no time to race with thee." 

Said the butterfly with haughty scorn, 

"You have, my friend, this whole fine morn." 

"Nay; nay; alas, I have my work 
Which I, you know, can never shirk." 

"And why?" returned his idle friend, 
"Doth not your labors sometime end ?" 

"Ay; ay, when winter comes around 
And flowers wither on the ground 

'Till then for every mile I go 
A fuller hive have I to show. 

"You see, my friend, this selfsame hive 
Will some day help keep me alive; 

"When winter comes and storms are rife 
What would support this humble life 

"If I had not improved the hours 

When honey stocked the summer flowers? 

"Where would I go in snow and sleet 
To get the food I fain must eat? 

"To ease an empty stomach's pain 
Till spring reclaims the fields again, 



54 



"To keep this fragile form together 
In winter's harsh and stormy weather?" 

"But surely," quoth the idle one, 

"You have time both for work and fun?" 

But the busy bee then shook his head 
As forth his nimble wings he spread. 

"Come, listen, friend, to what I say, 
You surely can afford to-day." 

"My time is precious," quoth the bee, 
"I cannot waste it, friend, like thee. 

"What would my busy comrades say 
If I should shirk my work for play. 

"What think they of the idle drone 
Who of their harvest hath he none; 

"Who, while the swift hours slipped away 
Had shiftless roamed the livelong day? 

"Alas! when winter bares the ground 
No helping friend can e'er be found 

"To fill his mouth with hard-sought food 
That he had scorned in lazy mood. 

"No mercy but a righteous wrath 
Besets the sluggard's tortured path. 

"And thus, you see, vain butterfly, 
One choice is left and that to die." 

"But, friend," returned the butterfly, 
"There is no need for him to die. 

55 



"The summer days are long and fair 
And we should all have time to spare. 

"Time to cease collecting treasure 
For what is life without pleasure. 

"Time to seek some small enjoyment 
By other ways than employment, 

"And still sufficient time be left 
Whereby one need not die bereft." 

"There lies the fault," replied the bee, 
"And I'll explain it, friend, to thee. 

"Here is a phrase that all doth haunt: 
The more we get, the more we want, 

"And this alas; my friend, is true 
Of work and of enjoyment, too. 

"In work there is a certain spell 
Beneath which all the busy dwell; 

"It shapes their nerves for every task, 
And steady work is all they ask. 

"Thus they with nothing else to do 
Oft reap their pleasures from it too. 

"But once when seized with slothful thirst 
Their thrifty lives are thrice accurst, 

"E'en as they once found pride in work 
Its strenuous labors now they shirk; 

"Till with the curse of idleness won 
Life's downward course has then begun. 

56 



"The ties we loved and labored under 
Foul sloth hath rudely torn asunder. 

"We spurn each task that we begin 
Which former pride had gloried in, 

"And then by sloth and foul neglect 
We lose our former self respect ; 

"Thus life continues day by day 
Work is forgotten, all is play, 

"E'en as we toiled in days of yore 
Idleness helps us love it more; 

"And then, alas! the time comes round 
When poverty is gaining ground. 

"Fortune's wheel revolving faster 
Pauses at the word disaster; 

"And there the arrow steadfast stays 
To point the evil of our ways. 

"Our friends that better moments knew 
Have ceased to be so tried and true, 

"For one by one they drop away 
Like mists before the dawn of day. 

"Harsh winter comes; the barren ground 
Denies the products we had found 

"In every verdant dale and field 
That now, alas ! refuse to yield 

"The merest food that might sustain 
A life of misery and pain, 

57 



"Until at length the day draws nigh 
When naught is left to do but die; 

"For shorn of every boon in life 

The soul must yield to hunger's strife. 

"Ah! then, my idle friend, you see 
The sad results of poverty. 

"A poverty unwise, self-made, 

Whose victim might, alas! have stayed 

"The progress of its evil strife 
If he had lived a careful life. 

"And judging well each rainy day 
Had not spent all his time in play." 

"Pooh! Nonsense!" quoth the butterfly, 
" 'Tis but a fool who thus must die." 

"But fools are many," quoth the bee, 
"Remember what I've said to thee." 

With that he spread his wings in flight 
For he had work to do ere night. 

A hive and young ones there to feed, 
Who tried his efforts with their greed. 

The butterfly forgot the speech, 

The morals that his friend would teach 

And with a heart unswerved and gay 
Continued in his idle play. 

Still flitting here and flitting there, 
With naught to wound his pride or care. 

58 



E'er taunting insects at their work, 
And tempting them their tasks to shirk, 

For he could feed upon the flowers 
In the friendly summer hours. 

But soon these faded fast away 

And winter dawned, fierce, cold and gray. 

Then ? mid the blasts of chill November 
Did he the bee's advice remember. 

But then alas; it was too late 

To strive against the hand of fate. 

With no home save the cheerless field 
That now, alas; had ceased to yield 

Its bounteous food for his repast, 
Thus was he forced to pine and fast; 

Unlike the bee he had forgot 
That misery is by pleasure wrought; 

For too much pleasure, too much mirth 
Will one day make a hell of earth. 

Play is real but too much leisure 
Is a harsh, ill-gotten treasure, 

The foster parent of regret 

O'er which some day we're sure to fret. 

The truth of this all those will find 
Who to its morals w T ise are blind 

As was our friend, the butterfly, 
Who for each laugh paid now a sigh. 

59 



The friends whose labors once he spurned 
Upon him now their backs had turned ; 

They had no alms for such as he, 

For they had warned him like the bee; 

And they, e'en as the busy bee, 
Oft had he taunted in his glee. 

It seemed that foes made up the world 
And every lip in scorn was curled 

When he, in vain, for aid now sought, 
To find that he had been forgot. 

Like evil that from former days 
Again in honor's pathway strays 

To fill the mind with harsh regret 
That long had lived but to forget 

The misery of an ill-spent life, 

The bitterness that marked its strife, 

Till friendless, faint from hunger's breath, 
Day after day he longed for death, 

And longing with a bitter sigh 

He stretched himself at length to die. 

Upon the cold and barren ground 
Where once life's comforts he had found, 

With no one by to ease his pain 
Or coax his former mirth again; 

With no kind spot to rest his head 
He groaned and moaned till night had fled 
60 



And morning dawned with chilling storm 
That lingered o'er his silent form. 

And dreary winds commenced to blow 
Where he lay dead beneath the snow. 

Thus was the bee's prophetic word 
That he in wicked glee had heard 

Fulfilled unto the very last 
When out of life, his living passed. 

Inglorious end, reward of those 

Who spurn the thought of dawning woes 

To whom life is but an empty treasure, 
A cup brimful of luring pleasure 

O'er which ere we should raise to drink 
All then should pause and pausing, think 

That this the fatal step may be 
To a life of future misery; 

A future brief but foul of breath 
Where life is but a living death. 

Like stars to sailors tempest tossed 
That gleam a moment, then are lost 

Forever in those regions dark 

That lure to doom, their reeling bark, 

Or like the sail that sees him not 
Speeds by the exile's lonely spot 

That fanned a moment hope's last spark 
A moment only, then all was dark. 
61 



Or as the message of reprieve 
Flashed in the night but to deceive 

The wretch condemned, about to die, 
Upon the gallows looming high, 

Who counts each moment in his cell 
And waits the sounding of death's knell 

With palsied nerve and glaring eye 
For with the morning he must die. 

Far better thus than such a hope 
Should drag its victim from the rope 

To thus renew his anxious breath 
And of this life make living death, 

To taunt him with the brooding thought 
That life is for the moment bought 

And that some hour he knew not yet 
Would end his fondest dreams in death. 

Base hope that thus renews his strength 
To live for hours but to die at length. 

That thus would double all his pain 
And force each bitter thought again 

That many a month with vain regret 
A blasted conscience strove to forget; 

To live that death scene o'er and o'er, 
That final death would know no more ; 

To live in hoping and discontent 
And sweetest of all, to die at length. 
62 



To die by fancy's thought and act 
And then at last to die in fact. 

But ah! about the busy bee 
Whose greatest gift was to forsee; 

Snug in a warm and spacious hive 
This thrifty one was still alive, 

Nor did the pangs of hunger haunt 
Our busy friend with thoughts of want; 

For he had stores enough to last 
Long after winter's dying blast. 

And thus with all his labors done 
His just reward has now begun. 

In rest and peace for months to last, 
Well earned from efforts of the past. 

My friends, ye whom this tale may read, 
Let every one its moral heed. 

Be wise, and like the busy bee, 
The future will take care of thee. 

But if to sloth you are inclined, 
Partaking of the sluggard's mind 

Then surely will you come to grief 
From which 'tis hard to find relief. 

Aye! like the drone and butterfly 
Your laugh will melt into a sigh, 

For as you sneer upon the world 

In answering scorn its lips are curled; 

6 3 



Remember then as through life you go, 
You cannot reap what you never sow. 

Work for the fruit that is your reward, 
For such your life was designed by God. 



6 4 



RETIREMENT OF GENERAL MILES 

Farewell! lay down thy trusty arms 

With many a victory blest, 
No more shalt thou at war's alarms 

March forward with the rest; 
Thy day is done, thy crown is won, 

Heed not the battle cry, 
Another's hand shall guide thy band 

Where gladly thou wouldst die. 

Farewell! thou sturdy martial son, 

Thy nation wills it so; 
Flushed with the heat of battles won 

Thou turnest from the foe; 
No more shall they in stern array 

Behold thy valiant form 
Outlined on high against the sky 

A mountain in the storm. 

The heart that never quailed with fear 

Still beats the same as yore ; 
The soldier holds thy memory dear 

Though he hears thy voice no more, 
Nor sees thy steed in direst need 

Dash by the wavering lines, 
To do or die in that flashing eye 

Where the light of victory shines. 

No more beneath the battle's smoke 

Where roared the grape and shell, 
Where thundering cannon rudely woke 

The dark confines of hell, 
Shall thou command Columbia's band 

'Neath the standard of the free, 
A firmer glance when the foes advance 

And a smile when they turn and flee. 

65 



Calm in the face of bitter woe 

When the fields were scarred and torn 
By the stubborn charge of the haughty foe 

On the breast of battle borne, 
Thy sturdy form rode through the storm 

While bullets fell like rain, 
And amid the din thy valiant men 

Found graves on the bloody plain. 

Lay down the sword that won thee fame, 

No more its flashing steel 
Shall add new lustre to thy name 

Where foemen cringe and kneel 
Upon the field that they must yield 

Despite the sullen pride 
That scorned retreat, while at their feet 

Their comrades nobly died. 

A mournful silence haunts the day 

Where once the savage band 
Defeated, fled in wild dismay 

Before thy iron hand ; 
The bleeding West with peace is blest, 

No warlike chants of yore 
Peal o'er the plains where freedom reigns 

And lauds thee evermore. 

The savage chieftain, pale with dread, 

Still hears thy martial strains 
As when uprising o'er the dead 

They shook the bloody plains 
As shook the world when Zion hurled 

Her wrath upon the land, 
And dusky braves filled nameless graves 

In the wake of thy gallant band. 



66 



Vet ali is still as the voice of death, 

And the roars of war are hushed, 
The warrior broods with a vain regret 

O'er the power that Miles has crushed ; 
No war cry sounds o'er the narrow mounds 

That gleam when the moon is full, 
And the redmen weep when the shadows creep 

O'er the grave of Sitting Bull. 

There, too, where the savage foe was slain 

In the waning light of day, 
Side by side on the grassy plain 

The graves of the troopers lay; 
There Custer sleeps, while a nation weeps 

O'er the spot where he sank to rest 
With the chosen few, each staunch and true 

As the pride of the crimson West. 

Above the grave of the martyr grows 

Fairest gem of its maker's art; 
Fair e'en when the north wind fiercely blows 

The flower of Custer's heart; 
No traitor's scorn was ever born 

To crush its glowing pride 
For it guards the grave of the fallen brave, 

The spot where Custer died. 

Ah ! w T ould that thou hadst fallen too 

In the heat of the conquering fray 
Than to live, alas! to vainly rue 

The grief of this parting day; 
The shameful scorn so basely born 

In the hearts of ungrateful men 
Who idle stood, whilst thy noble blood 

Was shed in the battle's din. 



6 7 



Fitting comrade of the slain chief 

Would that thou shared his fate 
Ere thy gray hairs should come to grief 

Through the censuring powers of hate; 
A jealous wrath that strews the path 

Of the heroic great, with woe, 
From the envious mind that prayed behind 

While his comrades faced the foe. 

Then cast the battered helmet down 

That decks thy noble brow, 
Its crimson war crest scorns the frown 

That greets its wearer now ; 
Thy dauntless breast that stood the test 

Of years of bitter strife 
Is just as proud beneath the cloud 

That mars the hero's life. 

Farewell! upon thy listening ear 

Falls not the voice of praise, 
The minion greets thee with a sneer, 

No lips an anthem raise 
To laud thy deeds that memory reads 

From her golden scroll of fame, 
Thy laurel crown is the traitor's frown 

And the slur upon thy name. 

But where the few will meanly scorn 

The many justly laud 
The native love within thee born, 

That choicest gift of God; 
Then cease to fear the traitor's sneer, 

His loathing to extol, 
'Tis but the wrath of an envied path, 

The scorn of a perjured soul. 



68 



Base envy born in the craven heart 

Where hast thou battles won? 
When hast the wiles of thy evil art 

Laid low proud Victory's son? 
Alas! the strife that gave thee life 

Knew not its weakling's strength, 
Thy poisoned tear may move the sphere, 

But the world will soon relent. 

And relenting shall its righteous power 

Crush out thy serpent wiles 
Loosed in the depths of an evil hour 

And backed by gracious smiles 
That sought to trace a foul disgrace 

Where honor nobly lies; 
Go, seek the knave, they craven slave, 

Bask in his evil eyes! 

Base art! no longer canst thou reign, 

Thy vice has lost its crown, 
The world greets thee with rude disdain 

And honor with a frown. 
Go, seek the heart that bred thy art, 

The breast that gave thee life 
To stir the pangs of thy vicious fangs, 

The cunning of thy evil strife ! 

Accursed passion; thus basely perish 

All kindred feelings born; 
What breast would fain thy rancor cherish 

To hold it up to scorn, 
To the bitter curse of hearts that nurse 

A far more noble pride 
That fain would spurn thy glances stern, 

Thy idle threats deride. 



6 9 



Then fare thee well, thou valiant one, 

Who well has borne his part, 
The heroic creed of a gallant son, 

The faith of a noble heart; 
God speed thy years that envy's tears 

Can never dim with shame, 
Nor base-born pride in anger chide 

Thy humble boast of fame. 

The hand of Time upon thy brow, 

His harsh imprint has laid, 
And gray hairs linger sadly now 

Where oft hath meekly strayed 
The sunny locks of guileless youth, 

The pride of boyhood days; 
Aye ; old thou seem in form, in mien, 

Yet ever young in praise. 

The sunset fades upon thy sight 

E'en as in days of yore 
When oft the perils of brooding night 

Thy heart unflinching bore, 
The darkened scene — the savage mien 

Of the foeman's grim array, 
When he sought this hour to crush his power 

Whom he feared to meet by day. 

But, ah; the foeman waits no more 

In ambush for his prey, 
As in the bloody days of yore 

He sought to vilely slay 
The faithful few who never knew 

The danger in advance; 
The forms concealed, the wounds unhealed, 

The hate in every glance. 



70 



No more the forest rings with cries 

From the hideous painted form, 
No more upon the prairie lies 

Beneath the battle's storm 
The mangled dead on their lowly bed 

'Neath the muskets' crashing roar, 
Or the redman's shrieks ere the rifle speaks 

To still them evermore. 



71 



CUSTER'S LAST RALLY 

The Sabbath is dawning and shrill cries of warn- 
ing 
Ring piercing from mountain and valley and 
glen. 
With eyes proudly flashing, brave Custer is dash- 
ing 
Along the stern ranks of his wild, gallant men. 

His noble steed prancing, half frightened is glancing 
Anon where the enemy lying concealed 

Like fiends superhuman, of ill-fated omen, 
Are waiting the call to the grim battlefield. 

Up! up! from the valleys the little force rallies, 
Their long, shining blades in the bright sunlight 
dance ; 

Alert to the danger, the stout Western ranger 
And tried veteran soldiers e'er forward advance. 

Still proud and defiant, steadfastly reliant 

On numbers so few that his eye counts them all, 

Custer has spoken and the silence is broken 

By the shrill, piercing blast of the bugle's sharp 
call. 

"To arms and advance!" in the general's stern 
glance 
Is read as War's anthem peals forth on the air. 
God's soothing love keep him as death springs to 
meet him, 
This noblest of chieftains, aye; brave Yellow 
Hair! 



72 



Wild, gallant cheering soon the savage is hearing, 
As crouched in his ambush he watches his prey. 

With smiles of derision he greets the swift vision, 
While his black heart is beating with restless 
delay. 

What heart-rending sorrow will greet sad to-mor- 
row 
When the sun, rising over the Little Big Horn, 
Will shed its first lustre on the dead forms of 
Custer 
And his men, with their faces upturned to the 
morn. 

What hearts sadly grieving yet scarcely believing 
Their loved ones are taken so soon from their 
side, 

With patience are waiting, their duties forsaking, 
To hear the dread news how the regiment died. 

The savage is ready; his hand, firm and steady, 
Is grasping the weapon concealed by his side. 

Anon he is glancing where the foe is advancing, 
His eye for the moment still flashing with pride. 

There on the meadows 'neath the dawn's breaking 
shadows 
Lies the power that has shattered his ancient 
domain, 
And his anger increases as the bugle call ceases 
And silence, grim silence, spreads o'er the vast 
plain. 

Not a murmur is heard save the clear, ringing word 
Of command as it flashes along the whole line; 

Though the crisis is nearing, though the outcome 
they're fearing 
Not a single man falters or broods o'er the sign. 

73 



E'en though they know it, what face there will show 
it, 

The truth that the redman is on the warpath ; 
Their's is to battle where musket balls rattle, 

Their's not to flinch at the enemy's wrath. 

Alone be it said of the now gallant dead 

Not a single man faltered or cast wistful sighs, 

But faced his fate stoutly wilst praying devoutly, 
Surrendering only when death closed his eyes. 

With wicked heart beating, the savage is creeping 
Still nearer the ranks of the ill-fated band ; 

Already excited, his swarthy face lighted 

With hopes of redeeming his dear native land. 

The moments pass slowly, a silence most holy 

Deceives the lone band that is crossing the plain; 

So soon to be broken by war's dreadful token, 
And the chill, bloody scenes of foul massacre's 
reign. 

But one trooper fearing, the savage is sneering, 
As swiftly the little band seems to draw near, 

Ah! how his face darkens as with terror he harkens 
To the voice of their leader ringing forth on his 
ear. 

As the tall form advances beneath their stern glances 
Not a savage but trembles with well-earned dis- 
may; 
For too well do they know the great strength of 
the foe 
When Custer, brave Custer, is leading the way. 



74 



His yellow hair streaming, his bright sword gleam- 
ing 
Daunts for the moment their desperate desire. 
But hate is the master, the heart beats the faster 
When moved to vile passions by long cherished 
ire. 

Hate turns to rejoicing, war's sentiments voicing, 
The savage though fearing Big Chief Yellow 
Hair, 
Is inwardly smarting 'neath swift anger starting 
That boasts of his wrongs and his hopeless 
despair. 

Aye! hopeless 'twould seem, yet the one luring 
dream 
That the redman caresses so fondly with pride 
Is to free his wronged nation though endless crea- 
tion 
Should loan its vast strength to the enemy's side. 

The thought is distressing and wildly expressing 
The depth of his anger, he springs to his feet. 

With fangs fiercely gnashing and evil eyes flashing, 
Hemming in the lone foe ere they pause to re- 
treat. 

Too late! Ah, too late to avoid their dread fate! 

The forces of Custer perceived their sad plight; 
To their arms quickly turning, on the instant dis- 
cerning 

'Tis useless to falter or think now of flight. 

Their ranks far outnumbered, the strength that has 
slumbered 
In breasts trained to courage by hardships of 
years, 
Now swiftly arising, their hearts are despising 
The treacherous foe and his vilest of sneers. 

75 



What hideous screaming, what wicked eyes gleam- 
ing 

Boasts of the fury that rankles each breast, 
As roused by the note from the bugle's shrill throat 

The Indian's valor is put to the test. 

The war whoop has sounded, the staunch band sur- 
rounded 

By creatures all thirsty for war's brutal gore; 
Now vainly endeavor the cordon to sever 

While hundreds are falling to rise never more. 

Wounded and bleeding, still gallantly leading 
His troopers against the vast ranks of the foe 

The white chief is fighting, his eager eye lighting 
With scorn as he parries each death-dealing blow. 

Forward ! e'er forward, the carnage is horrid ; 

Bullets are sweeping the corpse-strewn plain. 
Sabres are flashing, tomahawks crashing 

With sickening thud through each helmet and 
brain. 

Back and forth surging, stung by the urging 
Of Custer who seems the one soul of them all, 

The troopers are kneeling, now helplessly reeling, 
Stricken to death by the swift pistol ball 

Oh ; the wild daring, the frenzied despairing 
Of charges that shatter the foe but in vain ; 

Oh ; the weird splendor, their valor doth render 
In cup's fullest measures to war's cruel reign. 

Not a single rank wavers, not a lone trooper quavers 
But each like the stout Spartan soldier of old 

At his post stands unshaken, alone and forsaken, 
Like the tree in the desert that groans in the cold. 

7 6 



Their rifles are cracking, the strength that is lack- 
ing 

In the few scattered forces now left to war's din 
Is cancelled by daring and the rough, noble bearing 

Of the gallant white chief as he rallies his men. 

Vain rescue conceiving, his sabre is cleaving 

The air like flashes of weird lightning's stroke; 

Firm and unflinching, his lips tightly clenching, 
Endeavoring but vainly to ward off the yoke. 

Not a single step yielding, anon stoutly wielding 
The weapon that pierces the red, brawny foe; 

For freedom still trying though wounded and dying, 
The trooper is aiming his last fatal blow. 

Then death doth relieve him and those left to grieve 
him 

Perceive his tall form as it sways to and fro. 
This one fate desiring, he lies there expiring, 

Unconquered, unyielding, his feet to the foe. 

While yet slowly dying, his mangled form lying 
In the bright crimson tide that still ebbs from his 
breast, 
O'er his silent foe bending, his keen knife descend- 
ing, 
Kneels the bloodthirsty fiend of the fair, bleeding 
West. 

Not the heart's foulest scheming, not the stern, 
wicked gleaming 
Of the scalping knife poised o'er his ball-shattered 
head ; 
Not his scalp, warm and reeking, that the savage is 
seeking 
Can alter the calm, tranquil smile of the dead. 



77 



The redman arises with the plunder he prizes, 
The long, flowing locks from the late trooper's 
head 
His lips move in cursing, his wrath he is nursing, 
As he hurls the warm scalp in the face of its 
dead. 

On his heels scarce he's turning, his evil eyes burn- 
ing 
With the wild glow of malice that springs into 
view 
Ere his path is contested and the knife quickly 
wrested 
From his grasp, by a comrade of him whom he 
slew. 

His swarthy brow darkens, his keen ear harkens 
To the low, bitter tones of the white trooper's 
voice ; 
That sneering smile haunts him, that angry voice 
taunts him, 
And he springs at his foe, 'tis his one forlorn 
choice. 

The lone trooper meets him, with taunting laugh 
greets him, 

Whilst posing above him the keen, gory knife; 
Not an instant delaying, his mind bent on slaying 

The fiend who has taken his gallant friend's life. 

To his peril swiftly waking, the savage is making 
One last desperate rally to ward off his fate, 

For one fleeting moment he holds his opponent 
In a weird, brawny grasp that is strengthened by 
hate. 



78 



But the wiry foe bending, a sharp sudden ending 
O'ertakes the grim battle while yet at its height. 

As the crazed savage lunges, the white trooper 
plunges 
The knife in his bosom with all his stern might. 

The shrill death-song rattles; the last of his battles 
Is fought, and has ended in Death's grim em- 
brace. 

The chant slowly dying, a low-bitter sighing 
Parts the thin lips as he views his disgrace. 

Anon, backward springing, his arms wildly flinging, 
Convulsed with Death's frenzy above his proud 
head, 

With face agonizing, his end realizing, 

He is cursing his foe as he falls forward dead. 

So the scene passes, the huge struggling masses 
Surge heartless alike o'er the late fallen foes, 

Heedless of the sighing from the ranks of the dying, 
Ever busy resenting the enemy's blows. 

Still dauntless the cheering as grim doom appearing 
Looms up so despairing to the last of the troops; 

Not a single man winces; not a brave spirit flinches 
As their feeble shouts answer the brutal war- 
whoops. 

One by one they are falling; their voices still calling 
Aloud to their comrades left battling behind 

Not to give up the fighting though the odds are fast 
blighting 
The hopes of a rescue now doomed in each mind. 



79 



Their urgings are heeded though the little band 
needed 
Not their gallant incentives to spur their souls on. 
Though their strength is fast waning while the sav- 
age is gaining, 
Though their hearts tell them plainly redemp- 
tion is gone. 

Where the foe is the thickest, where the action is 
quickest 
The noble white chief makes his last bloody stand. 
Round their grim leader forming whilst gallantly 
storming 
The foe's haughty ranks spring the last of his 
band. 

Not a murmur escapes them at the fate that awaits 
them, 
But each in his place like the soldier of Rome, 
Stands panting and breathless with a valor that's 
deathless 
Every rapid blow telling, every shot going home. 

Oh, God ! it was fearful, the sad scenes and tearful, 

Enacted that day on the Little Big Horn ; 
War's carnage and thunder and the vain hapless 
blunder 
That doomed a brave band on that fair, lovely 
morn. 

The leaden balls raining, the crimson tide staining 

The torn, bloody field that is strewn with the 

slain. 

The Sioux's gleeful crying, the groans of the dying, 

As their tomahawks free the proud, helpless from 

pain. 



80 



At his very feet dying, his brothers are lying, 
While Custer can only look on with regret ; 

With eager foes busy, his anguished brain dizzy, 
He falters with grief — ah! his turn will come 
yet. 

A lull in the firing; a trooper desiring 

To save his loved leadei offers means of escape; 
His eager eyes glisten but his chief will not listen 

As he waves him aside and returns to his fate. 

Not his wife's face, or mother's, not the death of 

his brothers 

Can make him resign the vain field that is won; 

So back he's returning, his saddened heart yearning 

For the death that awaits him when his task will 

be done. 

Unwilling to leave him though his answer doth 
grieve him 
The stout gallant trooper remains by his side, 
His own freedom scorning, in his faithful breast 
dawning 
New sparks of emotion that he tries hard to hide. 

A charmed life he's bearing, as a haughty smile 
wearing, 
The big Yellow Chief greets the foe with disdain ; 
His keen sabre wielding, his life he is shielding, 
While the bullets are falling around him like 
rain. 

His great strength is telling, every sabre stroke fell- 
ing 

A savage, all gory with blood, to the plain; 
He sweeps all before him and those who ignore him 

Reel weak and unsteady, half blinded with pain. 

81 



Soon the trooper is taken, yet Custer, unshaken 

Falters not for an instant, but glancing aside 
By a blow of his sabre slays the fierce, dusky neigh- 
bor 
Whose vile hand has murdered his companion and 
guide. 

The dusky foes fear him, yet strive to get near him, 
Each to count coup on the big Yellow Chief, 

Will dare all perdition for this great ambition 
So exalting doth it seem in his frenzied belief. 

Crazed and defeated ere their aim is completed 

The foe has retreated full ten times or more, 
Each fiendish heart burning with intense, eager 
yearning 
To slay the white chief and his proud laurels 
lower. 

Their every blow foiling, brave Custer is toiling 
As virtue ne'er toiled in a vain, hopeless strife, 

Not for his liberty, such a hope cannot be, 
But to sell oh! so dearly a staunch, noble life. 

His efforts are failing, his stern cheeks are paling 
Not with despair, but fatigue and distress; 

Quick to perceiving, his pain is relieving 

To the foe who already count one trooper less. 

Aroused by their jelling, his brave spirit quelling 
The fatigue that is rising, he struggles anew, 

But his efforts are wasted, the savage has tasted 
The full tide of victory in death's woeful hue. 

An angry scowl wearing, a savage more daring 
Than the rest of his comrades, springs at the lone 
form. 
But this act, his undoing, too late he is rueing 
As the sabre descends like a flash in the storm. 
82 



Anon he is reeling, his shrill death cry pealing 
In wild, frenzied notes that are tinged with his 
woe. 

Rain-in-the-face hearing, his lips part in sneering 
As he fills the place vacant and faces the foe. 

His dark face is working with a hate that is lurk- 
ing 

In the black, evil heart of this fiend of the West ; 
His bright pistol flashes and the cruel ball crashes 

Laden with death in that staunch, fearless breast. 

Custer's pallid lip quivers, his giant frame shivers 
As the fire in his eye scorns the blood streaming 
slow 

Like the wretched slave dying to his slayer replying, 
In the fierce Roman circle hemmed in by the foe. 

Calm and serenely, his gaze fastened keenly 

On him who for murder sought he to condemn. 

Unmoved by their jeering, his end he is nearing 
Like a flower that is wilting on a torn, broken 
stem. 

He raises his sabre, 'tis strenuous labor, 

Too much for the strength that is failing him 
fast, 
Yet his slayer still fears him for as Custer nears 
him 
Dismay is expressed in the look that is cast. 

Ah! the savage is fleeing and Custer forseeing 
His end drawing nearer with each painful stride, 

Is fierce in desire ere his efforts expire 

To conquer the wretch by whose hand he has 
died. 



83 



Alas! though he is gaining, strong nature is waning 
And he sways in his gait like a leaf in the breeze, 

Like one palsy-striken his shattered nerves sicken 
And he moans as he falters and sinks to his knees. 

He is struggling to rise but a mist fills his eyes 

As he totters in vain to his worn, weary feet ; 
Another ball tearing through the rough coat he's 
wearing, 
And his soul has departed where the purest souls 
meet. 

Slow! Oh, so slowly, with face calm and holy, 

He falls weakly forward on the wet, bloody plain. 
Not a foe dare go near him for in death still they 
fear him 
While his blue eyes are smiling with scornful dis- 
dain. 

His courage returning, his fiendish heart yearning 
To seize the fair locks that adorn his proud head, 

His slayer forward dashes and his scalping knife 
flashes 
Triumphantly forth in the face of the dead. 

Though they know it will pain him, his comrades 
restrain him 

From marring the features so rigid in death; 
In life they respected ; in death they neglected 

Not the body of him whose sad fate they regret. 

Though his death is relieving, the Sioux are still 
grieving 
O'er him, who in life they admired so much ; 
Round his body uniting where he died nobly fight- 
ing, 
They spare his slain form from the knife's cruel 
touch. 

8+ 



Baffled and cursing 'neath the wrath he is nursing 
His slayer dashes madly where in death lying 
near 
Custer's brother is sleeping, and o'er mangled forms 
leaping 
He tears out the heart that had never known fear. 

The heavy smoke clearing, the sun is appearing 
Where one lone survivor still battles for life; 

His sword feebly grasping, he falls prone and gasp- 
ing, 
A martyr to vengenance and war's cruel strife. 

The troops torn and scattered with brains foully 
battered 
By the merciless tomahawk when scorned they to 
yield, 
In broken ranks lying are moaning and dying ; 
Ah! Custer himself gazes last o'er the field. 

The sun is descending; the long day is ending 
In red, rosy flushes that gladden the West. 

The blue sky is riven with the smiles that are given 
By God, when He calls all His creatures to rest. 

Thus ended the battle and the muskets' fierce rattle 

Is echoed no more o'er the land once distressed. 

Where they fell, they are sleeping, while a nation 

is weeping 

O'er the graves of the martyred who have gone 

forth to rest. 

Though time may outlive them, the laurels we give 
them 
Shall dim not in lustre or pale with neglect, 
But with staunch, endless glory shall we hark to 
their story 
And the lives gave so nobly ne'er shall we forget. 

8 5 



Yea! the tear softly falling, in silence recalling 

The voices of ones long since hushed in death 
Shall deck with its weeping the spot where they're 
sleeping 
While fond hearts are beating with priceless re- 
gret. 

May our memory undying, may the heart's gentle 
sighing 
Remember with pity that saddest of days ; 
In our minds ever keeping the spot where they're 
sleeping, 
Let us sing with the North wind a requiem of 
praise. 

Where the blossoms grow sweetest, where the sun's 
mildest heat is, 
Where the summer is radiant with the scent of 
perfume, 
Where the green grasses growing in the soft wind 
are blowing, 
Underneath, rest the troopers who met such a 
doom. 

Where the songs never-ending of the gay birds 
descending 
From the green, spreading branches that sway 
overhead, 
Fill the vale with their musing but the rarest notes 
choosing, 
Lie the hallowed remains of the nation's brave 
dead. 

Where the very earth scented with a happy, con- 
tented, 
Sweet, loving smile that adorns the whole plain, 
Where all Nature is brightest, where the moon's 
softest light is, 
In calm, tranquil peace lie the graves of the slain. 
86 



'Neath the sun's waning shadows, where the vast, 
sweeping meadows 
Are decked with the purest of Nature's array, 
Silent and lowly, in a calm that is holy, 

In their last, martyred sleep, lie the dead of the 
fray. 

Such is the story of a proud nation's glory 
Upheld by the truest and bravest of sons; 

Their deeds let us cherish, nor that love ever perish 
We bestow, oh! so fondly, on the dear sleeping 



87 



JOHN STORM, THE OUTLAW 

Up from the meadows clear and bright, 
Beneath the moon's descending light 

His rifle in his hand 
On, on, he sped o'er moor and plain, 
His grasp firm on his charger's rein, 

Before his gallant band. 

"They say an outlaw vile am I, 
All forward!" rang his fierce reply 

Unto his robber men, 
And rising in their stirrups high, 
Outlined against the starlit sky, 

They thundered through the glen. 

The hoof-beats sounded on the night, 
At every stride a flash of light 

Gleamed 'neath their horses' feet 
As forward o'er the stony road 
They dashed beneath their gallant load 

With gallop sure and fleet. 

When morn was breaking from the sky 
His brave lieutenant was to die 

For murder, so they said, 
At Hard wick many miles away, 
And ah! a distant streak of gray 

Was dawning overhead. 

He stroked his coal-black charger's mane, 
And urged him on and on again 

In this stern hour of need, 
And with a gesture of his hand 
He beckoned to his gallant band 

To double now their speed. 



With glances stern upon the east 
Where e'er that streak of gray increased 

They answered with a cheer 
That shook the rough and hardened ground 
With burst of wild, defiant sound 

That echoed far and near. 

With flashing eye and gesture proud 
That many a stalwart foe had cowed 

Spake he in bitter scorn: 
"My men, shall Lester Waldron die?" 
"No! No!" rang back their fierce reply 

Against the silent morn. 

"And I say no, or else to-day 
Shall see this body lifeless clay; 

Yea; ere this morn has fled. 
For foemen ne'er shall boast their prey, 
Aye! he, whom they this morn would slay 

Save when John Storm is dead." 

"Because to save his life he slew, 
Would they now hang our comrade true 

Beside his prison pen? 
For be it murder as they say, 
When one to save himself must slay, 

Ah! his was murder then." 

"His was no crime to you or me, 
His deed was done for liberty, 

No matter what they say; 
And though this morn should see me dead 
No noose shall grace my comrade's head 

To take his life away" 



89 



"It is no death for such as he 
The base, ignoble gallows tree, 

Aye; strangled like a cur; 
Fain would I seek the depths of hell 
Lured on by Satan's vilest spell 

Than such a fate prefer." 

"John Storm, the outlaw, spurned by all 
Save ye who answer now his call, 

Is more a man to-day 
Than those who flaunting justice proud 
Would drag his friend before the crowd 

To take his life away." 

"For what? For striking down a foe 
Who aimed at him a fatal blow 

When he his back had turned ; 
Far more a murderer than our friend 
Whose life to day they've sworn to end, 
Whose story they have spurned." 

"Who, poorly matched against the skill 
Of him whose hand was raised to kill, 

Returned the coward's thrust, 
And sent him reeling to the earth, 
Dazed from his dagger, mortally hurt, 

For which now die he must." 

"False tongues have sworn his life away, 
False hands shall grasp the rope to-day 

To do the sheriff's beck, 
False eyes shall sneer into his face, 
False hands the hangman's noose shall place 

About his quivering neck." 



90 



"E'en now, perchance, within his cell 
The sheriff reads the prisoner's knell 

With base, triumphant breath; 
But not while I, John Storm, doth live 
Shall he the hated signal give 

To launch him unto death." 

The outlaw trembled as he spoke, 
And deep within his eyes awoke 

A hidden, slumbering fire; 
And down his rigid cheeks there ran 
Two burning tears, bred of a man 

Filled with a fond desire. 

He looked again unto the east, 

The darkness waned, the light increased, 

With Hard wick miles away. 
His nervous grasp still stroked the rein, 
His stern face wore a look of pain 

.Increasing with the day. 

Again he urged his noble beast, 
Nor took his eyes from off the east 

Now faint with crimson red, 
And thundering boldly in his wake 
A trusty comrade's life at stake, 

The sturdy outlaws sped. 

O'er fields now dim 'neath the morning light, 
Led by a steed as black as night, 

And on each face a frown; 
By mountain side where torrents flowed 
Like charging troopers, fast they rode, 

On toward the distant town. 



91 



Swift as the waking lark takes flight, 
Swift as the deadly flash of light 

That rends the stormy skies, 
Onward they swept through valleys wide, 
Appearing now on every side 

Confronted by their eyes. 

Soon faint against the clouds of gray 
Where night was taking leave of day 

A distant steeple shone, 
And with a wild, triumphant cheer 
That echoed on the morning clear, 

They urged their horses on. 

Right nobly did their steeds reply 
With lightning hoof and whinnied cry, 

And nostrils white with foam; 
With eyes that fairly blazed with fire 
Fixed on that distant looming spire 

As if it were their home. 

It was the church of Hardwick town, 
Whose mighty spire glanced proudly down 

Upon a scene of strife, 
Upon the horsemen far away 
And racing with the dawning day 

To save their comrade's life. 

And as upon the spire they glanced 
With steady stride their steeds advanced, 

Nor did a stout heart quail, 
Thus, ere had passed another hour, 
Rose far beneath the gloomy tower 

Of Hard wick's guarded jail. 



92 



Then did their faces sterner grow 
Flushed with a deep, impatient glow, 

Anon as black as night; 
As with a single bound they passed 
The crowds of people there amassed 

To view the gruesome sight. 

The latter stood amazed, aghast, 
And fearful were the looks they cast 

Upon the outlaw band, 
Now charging swiftly on their town, 
With flashing eye and bitter frown, 

And rifle in each hand. 

With rein drawn tight between their teeth 
Dashed they upon the crowded street 

Their deadly rifles aimed, 
Their maddened chargers panting hard 
Sprang for the yawning prison yard, 

With angry eyes aflamed. 

Thus through the massive iron gate, 
And fearful lest he be too late 

John Storm sprang in the lead; 
Within the hated prison yard 
Brained he the stern and watchful guard 

Who would have stopped his steed. 

There on the scaffold poised to speak, 
With quivering lip and manly cheek, 

His brave lieutenant stood 
With hands and feet securely bound, 
And flashing eyes fixed on the ground 

Beneath that frame of wood. 



93 



Where stood his foes, an angry flood, 
Still thirsting for its victim's blood 

With mingled frown and sneer, 
To whom sought he to make reply 
That he was not afraid to die 

Though life to him was dear. 

Scarce had the wretched captive spoke 
Ere from the crowd a murmur broke, 

Increasing to a cry; 
A cry of wildest dread and fright 
And glancing swiftly to the right 

He caught his leader's eye. 

John Storm, with angry voice and loud, 
Had forced his charger through the crowd, 

And thundering in his rear 
His fearless outlaws nobly bore 
Down on the gate 'mid din of roar 

That drowned their gallant cheer. 

A scene of wild alarm prevailed, 
The sheriff's sturdy features paled, 

But with a gallant stride 
He mounted on the scaffold high, 
Erect stood he, with flashing eye, 

Firm by the captive's side. 

He feared the rescue now at hand 
Planned by the dreaded robber band, 

Yet with a stalwart pride 
Bred in the spirit of the brave 
To noblest impulse e'er the slave 

Their efforts he defied. 



94 



E'en as the prisoner thrilled with hope 
His hand was on the trusty rope, 

And grasping now the noose 
While yet his foes were held in check 
He drew it 'round the captive's neck 

Though hell below was loose. 

The guards were battling with their foes, 
Where cries of rage and pain arose 

In tumult from the ground. 
Ah! fiercely now T the rifle spoke 
And shrieks of mortal woe awoke 

In echoes all round. 

The scaffold swayed, the timbers shook, 
But with a bold, defiant look 

The sheriff forward sprang 
And seized the captive's trembling arm 
Despite the threats of bodily harm 

That far below him rang. 

A rifle aimed — a fearful shout: 

"Stop! Stop!" an angry voice rang out; 

The bullet grazed his brow. 
Resolved to carry out the law 
He reeled, he staggered, and he saw 

John Storm below him now. 

The crowd against the scaffold surged, 
But still his conscience stoutly urged 

Him forward in his work; 
Though blood had filled his flashing eyes 
He heeded not their warning cries 

Nor would his duty shirk. 



95 



Still dazed, he forced the prisoner's feet 
Upon the trap, that underneath 

Already was prepared. 
"Stop! Stop!" rang out that wild alarm, 
A bullet broke his stout right arm, 

But still the foe he dared. 

John Storm was wild with anger now, 
A frown had gathered on his brow 

Dark as a thunder cloud; 
His eyes admired the sturdy sight 
And thrice his voice with all his might 

Conveyed a warning loud. 

"Stop! Stop!" cried he above the roar, 
In vain the outlaw fumed and swore, 

The sheriff would not stop; 
As with a weak and gasping cry 
His firm left hand was raised on high 

To spring the fatal drop. 

Much as he scorned to slay the foe 
Whose steadfast courage moved him so 

John Storm took deadly aim, 
Twice had his shots bespoke his skill 
And now his pistols aimed to kill, 

His tenderer pulse o'ercame. 

Two shots rang out upon the air, 
The sheriff reeled with ghastly stare 

From him he would have hung; 
One shot had pierced his gallant brain, 
The other cut the rope in twain 

E'en as the trap was sprung. 



9 6 



Well had the noble sheriff tried 
To stem that stout opposing tide 

That warned him to retreat, 
And as his form fell forward dead 
The captive's body downward sped 

To fall at John Storm's feet. 

With pistol grasped in either hand, 
Surrounded by his outlaw band, 

John Storm gazed fiercely round 
And held the eager foe at bay 
That surged where now the captive lay 

Unconscious on the ground. 

The latter's hands were swiftly freed 
And mounted on that coal black steed 

Supported by his chief 
Began the outlaw's mad retreat, 
The crowd swayed 'neath the horses' feet, 

Where rose their wails of grief. 

A guard now sprang to close the gate, 
He shared his dauntless sheriff's fate, 

A bullet laid him low. 
Despite his death another tried, 
And like his comrade nobly died 

Beneath a crushing blow. 

In vain the crowd would stop their flight 
With threatening scowls as black as night 

They drove their steeds ahead, 
But not unscathed, for all around 
Were lying on the bloody ground 

Their dying and their dead. 



97 



With every bound they gained new strength 
Till pausing by the gate at length 

They forced their passage through, 
And dashed along the narrow street 
E'en as they came, with flying feet, 

But not the same stern crew. 

Their comrade's life had cost them dear, 
For slain in groups far in their rear 

Full half their number lay, 
And though John Storm had kept his word 
No wild, triumphant cheer was heard 

As he now rode away. 

For stalwart men like his were few, 
And ne'er a sturdier nobler crew 

Obeyed a chief's command, 
And ne'er were nobler foes in life 
Than those who perished in the strife, 

Slain by the outlaw band. 

The hot sun soon shone brightly down 
Upon the jail at Hard wick town, 

Upon the scaffold drear 
Where lay the sheriff's silent form 
Whose dauntless heart had braved the storm 

Without a trace of fear. 

Sadly its beams played on each face 
Of grappled foes in death's embrace 

Strewn on the ground beneath, 
Where lay across the gloomy yard 
A row of mingled foe and guard 

That marked John Storm's retreat. 



9 8 



Oh, what a harvest of the fight 
That marred a morning fair and bright 

With shrouded pall of death: 
John Storm safe many miles away 
Cursed his harsh fortunes of that day 

With stern blasphemous breath. 

And wails rose up in Hardwick town 
O'er sturdy manhood's pride cut down 

By his enraged decree. 
Long was that day in terror held 
When he against the law rebelled 

And set his comrade free. 



99 



THE CORPORAL'S TALE OF GETTYS- 
BURG 

I can see the ranks advancing, 
And the horses madly prancing, 
While all eyes are sternly glancing 

O'er the field. 
I can hear the roar of battle, 
And the musket's awful rattle 
Where the foe like stricken cattle 

Backward reeled. 

But anon they bravely rally, 

And from guarded ridge and valley 

Soon their rebel forces sally 

Once again. 
Ah ! bloody was the charge they made, 
As mounted horse and light brigade 
Sprang on unconquered, undismayed, 

O'er the plain. 

There fiercely fell the sabre's stroke, 
Cannon's thunder deafening spoke, 
Veterans, as they wildly broke, 

Turned and fled. 
There wounded horse and rider fell 
Stark in that mad incarnate hell, 
Where smothered groans announced the knell 

Of the dead. 

Two brothers, North and South, had met 
In one long duel unto death; 
Aye! with the spark of vain regret 

In each heart. 
Strong brothers in the sight of God 
Drenched with their blood their native sod, 
One, that slavery's hated rod 

Might depart. 

ioo 



The other in his haughty pride, 

Back with grim shot and shell replied, 

And in his anger would have died 

Ere he quailed. 
Alas! though both of one great race 
Dark, sullen hatred tinged each face, 
Which deep the omen of disgrace 

Now had paled. 

Still back and forth the columns surge, 
Here, Death now chants his mournful dirge, 
There, all grimed, the generals urge 

On their men. 
Oh ! the mad horror of it all 
As the torn bodies reel and fall 
Amid the scream of the cannon ball 

And war's din. 

Battered ranks of the blue and gray, 
All panting fight the livelong day, 
And mute in silence dumbly pray 

Each might win. 
The one to free the burdened slave 
Unswerving claims a hero's grave, 
The other just as staunch and brave, 

Guards the sin. 

There, in the early flush of morn, 
Up through the fields of yellow corn, 
And panting where their ranks are torn, 

Charge the foe. 
Side by side their sabres flashing 
Quick through brain and helmet crashing, 
Backward wheeling, forward dashing, 

Blow for blow. 



IOI 



Now the rebels force the righting, 
Eyes with anger swiftly lighting, 
Stung to madness by the blighting 

Of their hope; 
Staunch in purpose, firm, unshaken, 
Though their strongest flanks are taken, 
Efforts in the troops awaken 

Whom they cope. 

Lee is foremost, vainly calling 
To the troopers round him falling, 
Where the heavy fire and galling 

Sweeps the field. 
Ceaseless in his words of bravery 
Death to him who censures slavery, 
Ne'er to Northern scheming knavery 

Would he yield. 

"Charge the line!" 'Tis Meade whose crying 
Shrill above the groans and sighing 
Leaping o'er the dead and dying 

On his steed. 
Eyes aflash and stern repeating 
To his troopers fast retreating 
Urgings rife in his sharp greeting 

Born in need. 

Now the plunging horse beneath him 
Wounded, threatens to unseat him; 
Oh! the yells and cheers that greet him 

From his ranks. 
Swift their answer to his daring, 
Faithful unto death, they're swearing, 
O'er the plains their steeds are tearing 

With torn flanks. 



102 



Cannon sweeps the ranks asunder, 
Belching forth their awful thunder, 
Heaps of mangled dead lie under 

Scenes of horror. 
Quivering groups of dying totter 
In that hell of fiendish slaughter; 
Oh; Columbia! woe has wrought her 

Chains of sorrow. 

Vicious hoof-beats maim the dying 
Loud for mercy vainly crying; 
Crash! each iron hoof replying, 

Takes a life. 
Cannon roar and martyrs reeling 
Helpless now, and weakly kneeling, 
Still heroes' worn strength revealing 

Urge the strife. 

Now the day is slowly dying, 
Hushed in death the ranks are lying, 
Crooning winds a requiem sighing 

Guard the dead. 
Sadly twilight is descending, 
Hark! the bugle's notes are ending, 
Martial strains are softly blending 

O'er each head. 

Side by side, in death united, 

Lie the foes whose lives were blighted 

By the wrongs one would have righted, 

One defend. 
Fairest Luna from her station 
Mourns the proud and bleeding nation, 
Mute in awe, all earth's creation 

Waits the end. 



103 



Hastening to the field of slaughter 
Comes the weeping wife or daughter, 
Tearful news has swiftly brought her 

To the scene. 
Silently she sadly passes 
'Mid the scarred and mangled masses 
Strewn about the crimson grasses 

Once so green. 

Peering in the silent faces 
Fearful lest familiar traces 
Mar the hope the heart embraces 

For his fate. 
Kneeling now, while tears are streaming 
On the stricken features gleaming 
Ghastly, in the moon's soft beaming, 

Found too late. 

Perhaps among the slain she'll find him, 
For no loving tie could bind him 
To the home left far behind him 

Who can tell. 
Perhaps deserted, scorned, and dying, 
Wrapped in faded blue he's lying; 
Perhaps in tattered gray he's sighing 

Where he fell. 

To her bosom fast she holds him, 

Mute her anguished clasp enfolds him ; 

Death a shroud of glory moulds him 

'Mid the slain. 
Perhaps he lives to hear her blessing, 
While his fevered brow she's pressing, 
To the heart thoughts are distressing, 

Thoughts of pain. 



104 



Sisters sad and widowed mothers 
Seek their missing sons and brothers 
Where lie countless forms of others 

In array. 
Stilled the hearts once proudly beating, 
Scorned they life won by retreating; 
Silent in their hallowed greeting, 

Blue and gray. 

Morning dawns again, and heeding 
Victories won the day preceding, 
Meade is up and wildly leading 

On his men. 
Full against the tattered foeman 
Restless ranks of sturdy yeoman 
Dauntless 'neath despairing omen 

Of war's din. 

Again the tumult, roar and rattle, 
Again the wretched scenes of battle, 
Again the field, where grazed the cattle 

Hours ago, 
Is frenzied 'neath the wild disorder 
All gory stained from ridge to border, 
And rampart 'neath that ringing order: 

"Charge the foe!" 

Noonday's blazing hour soon fleeting 
Hails the same remorseless greeting, 
Flinching ne'er and ne'er retreating 

Still they ride. 
Thinner yet and thinner growing 
As the grass of Autumn's mowing 
Reel the ranks, while eyes are glowing 

Faint with pride. 



105 



Sunset with its gorgeous glory 
Repeats the oft repeated story, 
And mocking skies all red and gory 

View the sight. 
Thousands whom that fatal morning 
Saw the foulest dangers scorning 
Now the trampled field adorning 

Greet the night. 

Silence; deathless silence reigning, 
Not the faintest murmur deigning, 
Save the pensive winds complaining 

Guards the night. 
Softly taps sad strains are dying 
Fraught with comrades' bitter sighing 
O'er the dead, a harvest lying 

Of the fight. 

Calm upon their laurels waiting. 
Weary yet all rest forsaking, 
Northern troops descry the breaking 

Of the dawn. 
Flash their eyes impatient glancing 
Where the light in skies advancing 
Dims the phantom bon-flres dancing 

O'er the lawn. 

Wrapped in gloom the foe is sleeping 
Where the rebel guard is keeping 
Anxious watch o'er daylight creeping 

In the East. 
Mild with tinted hues so tender, 
Regal in its hallowed splendor, 
Rich with all that God can render 

To dawn's feast. 



1 06 



At the drum beat sadly waking 
Peaceful dreams of home forsaking, 
Hurried preparations making 

For the fray, 
Rise the rebel troopers scorning 
All the vibrant joys of morning, 
Hearts that hope is past adorning 

Curse the day. 

See! the dull gray lines are forming, 
Madly o'er the plain they're storming, 
Ere the first, faint flush of morning 

Breaks in light. 
Sweeping ranks of blue doth meet them, 
Screaming shells with fury greet them, 
Horses plunge and fall beneath them, 

Crazed with fright. 

Stalwart Lee is wildly riding 
Where the smoke his form is hiding, 
Where the foe grim death abiding 

If they must 
Sweep his standards on before them, 
Crushing those who vainly bore them, 
Cheering as they proudly lower them 

To the dust. 

Ah! the rebel cause is waning, 
Bullets thick and fast are raining, 
Countless victims sadly claiming 

In their flight. 
Bright the deadly swords are gleaming 
Where the dim, uncertain beaming 
Of the rising morn is screening 

Scenes of strife. 



107 



Hand to hand the conflict wages, 
Restless hope with death engages, 
Fiercely like a tempest rages 

The stern tide. 
Breast to breast their sabres wielding, 
Gaining ground and never yielding, 
Dauntless zeal their bosoms shielding, 

Blue troops ride. 

Like the roar of mighty thunder, 
Rending earth and sky asunder, 
Pealing echoes burst from under 

Clouds of smoke. 
Crushed and beaten, backward reeling, 
All the grief of martyrs feeling, 
Bowed, in anguished torture kneeling 

Stout hearts broke. 

One more stubborn charge inspiring, 
One more loyal stand desiring, 
Where his men are fast expiring, 

He yet thirsting 
For revenge is Lee now dashing, 
Firm, erect and stern eyes flashing, 
Mid the roar and constant crashing 

Of shells bursting. 

All in vain he scans the faces 

Scarred and seamed with warlike traces, 

Blackened from the foul embraces 

Of the powder. 
Every tendon nobly straining 
Firm, and not a man complaining, 
Fighting still and death disdaining 

Hearts beat louder. 



108 



Back in conquered footsteps turning, 
Back from whence but few returning, 
Filled with all a nation's yearning 

Reel the foe. 
Back with quenchless valor burning, 
Back to certain death returning, 
Back and every soul is spurning, 

Thrust and blow. 

Back till worn strength succumbing 
Hails the bugle call and drumming, 
Hails though far too late in coming, 

Rest from pain. 
Back till noble Lee forseeing 
Death to every beast and being, 
Joins his scattered forces fleeing 

O'er the plain. 

Long will live those days of warning, 
Memory's sacred realms adorning, 
When like the ardent rose of morning 

Softly blended, 
The star of freedom rose in glory 
O'er battle fields, dark grim and gory, 
And never set though Slavery's story 

Long since ended. 



109 



HOW THE DEACON SAVED THE DAY 

Have you ever heard the story how the deacon saved 

the day? 
No, you haven't? Wall, I swan! 
'Twas nigh the little village just a trifle cross the 

bay 
That it happened while the neighbors were all busy 

making hay, 
Though some twenty years or more, I ween, have 

since then passed away, 
And with them, ah! the deacon too has gone. 

Mebbe you would like to hear it ; mebbe not ; what's 

that you said ? 
Why, sartin, stranger, hev a glass or two 
Just in memory o' the deacon now a-lying cold and 

dead 
With the gravestone of a hero raised above his 

lowly bed. 
How's the cider strike ye, stranger, purty well I 

think ye said ; 
No, stranger, thankee, no, one glass'll do. 

I never was a drinker more'n sociable to be 

All the neighbors too'll swear it, friend, I vow. 
So you'd like to hear the story as it all comes back 

to me 
How the deacon saved the sailors from the gallant 

Nancy B. 
Sharing honors with his Dolly in that wild plunge 
in the sea. 
Hev a pipeful, there; I'll tell it to ye now. 

Who was Dolly? Oh; his mare, sir, and a better 

never ran 

A-tween this town and Bentley, sir, I'll swear, 

Nor was a beast e'er ridden by a truer, braver man 

no 



Than the deacon was; I'll tell ye just as truthful as 

I can. 
Deacon who? Why Deacon Brown, sir, What! 

My goodness Ian! 
I thought they knew the deacon everywhere. 

You see, it was the morning of the eighteenth of 
July, 
Nigher noon, my friend, perhaps I'd better say; 

The sun was shining brightly in the peaceful sum- 
mer sky 

Where above the spotless clouds in tranquil glory 
drifted by, 

And the wind's low, sleepy murmur swept the ocean 
with a sigh, 
All nature was appealing to the day. 

The neighbors all were busy as I said, a-making hay, 

And the deacon like the honest man he was 
With his sturdy brow besprinkled with the locks 

of dawning gray, 
Stood in his little pasture, not a half a mile away 
From the spot where soon a hero he was to be- 
come that day. 
Excuse me, stranger, I've just got to pause. 

Ah! I never can recall it without a painful sigh, 

The memory o' the deed he done that day, 
Nor will I e'er forget it until the day I die, 
Breathes not the man to speak of it without a tear- 
ful eye; 
There, stranger, is the very spot, see, where the 
breakers lie, 
That he saved the drowning sailors from the bay. 

Ay! stranger, as I said before, it was a lovely day, 

A fairer one, indeed, I never knew, 
But soon the wind had shifted out across the placid 



HI 



And a howling gale was raging where the tossing 

vessels lay, 
While the azure blue of heaven changing to a 
frowning gray 
Sent a warning swift and sartin to each crew. 

The thunder soon a-pealing 'mid the blinding gusts 

of rain 
Seemed to waken all the echoes of the world; 
And the lightning flashing broadly o'er the madly 

tossing main 
With every crash of thunder seemed to rend the 

sky in twain, 
While borne upon the breezes came weird, startled 

cries of pain 
Where the waves upon the rocks a ship had 

hurled. 

Wall, stranger, it was awful, jest as awful as could 

be. 
Yes, thankee, sir, I think I'll have a smoke. 
Wall, we gathered on the coast, sir, a-straining eyes 

to see 
Where the trouble was a-brewing and oh, God! 

the Nancy B 
Lay a-pounding on the rocks, sir; her side unto the 

lea, 
Our faces paled with terror. Not a blessed being 

spoke. 

The boats were cast a-drift, sir, by a mighty rolling 
wave 
As she lay upon the rocks a total wreck, 

Scurged by the angry ocean as the master beats his 
slave, 

At the mercy of the howling wind and wildly toss- 
ing wave. 

Alas! it seemed no human power exerted now could 
save 
The men who trod upon her reeling deck, 

112 



Some were lashed unto the rigging, peering wildly 
in from sea 
In vain appeal to us upon the shore; 
Huddled in frightened groups, sir, just as nervous 

as could be 
Not knowing what to do, sir, to stand, sir, or to 

flee. 
Ah! the deacon — what is that, sir? Where, alas! 
was he? 
Listen closer, stranger, and 111 tell ye more. 

At the first sound of distress, sir, he had hurried to 

the coast 
Mounted on his faithful mare, and glancing keen 
Where the lightning showed the vessel a-looming 

like a ghost 
Sending messages for aid, sir, to us mortals on the 

coast. 
Not a word he ever spoke, sir, but away like Satan's 

host 
He fled as one enchanted by the scene. 

To the village straight he went, sir, but returned 
without delay 
With a heavy rope now coiled around his breast, 
Into the sea he plunged, sir, and across the lashing 

bay 
Against the winds and waves, sir, they stanchly 

made their way 
To where the Nancy B, sir, in awful peril lay 
Every moment yielding to the ocean's crest. 

We saw him hurl the rope, sir, from our station on 

the shore, 
And the sailors grasped it like a dawning hope; 
Into the sea they plunged, sir, and we saw their 

forms no more, 

113 



But the mare stoutly turned sir, and for the coast 

she bore 
With her load behind her trailing and praying for 
the shore, 
While every grasp was straining on the rope. 

Wall, stranger, you were young, sir, too young per- 
haps to hear 
How the deacon rode his gallant mare that day 

With his arms around her neck, sir, and the rope 
a-trailing near 

Fastened firmly round his breast, sir, and a-drawing 
in his rear 

Its freight of human mortals a-quaking now with 
fear, 
Across the raging waters of the bay. 

You say you lived in Slocum, jest forty miles away, 

Mighty queer, I reckon, that you never knew 
Of the deacon and his mare, sir, or their ride across 

the bay 
On the eighteenth of July, sir, a well remembered 

day. 
Jest forty mile away, sir, jest forty mile away, 
And ye never heard about the Nancy's crew? 

Ay; it's queer, sir, I reckon, but the world is ever 

so 
And miracles oft come to pass that way. 
But as I was a-saying, sir, since you really do not 

know 
How the deacon saved the sailors some twenty years 

ago, 
Jest a moment. Got a match, sir? How that 

'fernal wind does blow. 
Now about that daring ride across the bay. 



114 



Wall, the deacon was a man, sir, every inch from 
ground to head, 
And the mare — wall, a better one ne'er breathed. 

But for them the Nancy's crew sir, would all be ly- 
ing dead 

'Neath the waters of the ocean on a cold and rocky 
bed 

With the waves a-chanting dirges in sadness over- 
head, 
Instead o' praising high the deacon's deed. 

But the Maker hadn't planned it that the crew 
should perish there 
Though He wrecked them on the waters of the 
bay; 

He had sent the deacon thither with his ever-faith- 
ful mare 

As a ray of hope a-dawning in the darkness o' des- 
pair, 

And He surely never picked, I ween, a better fitted 
pair 
To make the gallant rescue of that day. 

A-trembling, are ye, stranger? Wall, just a mo- 
ment more, 
And ye'll hear the end of all I've got to say. 
The deacon and his mare, sir, soon reached the wel- 
come shore 
And a hundred pair of hands, sir; aye — a hundred 

and a score 
Relieved them of the burden, sir, they yet so stoutly 
bore, 
And again they set out o'er the stormy bay. 

Thrice was that journey made sir, till the last man 
of the crew 
Was landed safe and sound upon the shore, 
Jest in the nick o' time, sir, for the storm in fury 
grew; 

ii5 



How it happened I can't tell, sir, for indeed I never 

knew, 
But the bark soon went to pieces, sir, and sank, alas ! 

from view 
Forever 'neath the mighty tempest's roar. 

Wall, the strain upon the deacon was, I ween, too 

much to bear 
And he fainted when he landed on the coast; 
A-twixt jest you and me, sir, with a mighty tender 

care 
We took him in our arms, sir, for the dampness in 

the air 
Was such to bring on fever should he linger any 

there. 
He was white, I tell ye, stranger, aye, whiter than 

a ghost. 

Our care was unavailing, and he rapidly grew 

worse, 

For his daring ride had chilled him to the bone. 

The fever soon set in, sir, and settled like a curse 

To wage its loathsome battle with his ever-tender 

nurse ; 
A fortnight, sir, he lingered, all the time a-growing 
worse, 
Then he passed away without a single moan. 

Excuse this pesky tear, sir, ah! you are crying too. 

Wall, I can't say as I blame ye much, my friend, 

For the deacon was a man, sir, every inch as stanch 

and true 
As the bravest in the land, sir; ask the Nancy's gal- 
lant crew. 
Dash me, stranger, they will swear it, for his like 
they never knew; 
Ah! that he should come to such a bitter end. 

116 



We laid him on the hill, sir, beside his loving wife 

In constant sight o' yonder sunken reef 
Where twenty years or more ago he braved the 

ocean's strife, 
Ah! the memory o' that gallant deed to me is ever 

rife, 
And the mare, sir? Ah, she lingered on, unhappy 
in this life 
For a month or two, then up and died o' grief. 



1*7 



WHEN I AM DEAD 

When I am dead and in earth's bosom lying 

Let no sad tear 
Rise with the winds that round me vainly sighing 

Shall linger near; 
For peace to me is only with the dying, 

When death is dear 

When in my cell I am eternal sleeping 

'Neath yonder ground, 
Let no sad burst of deep, impassioned weeping 

Or pious sound 
Forever o'er my form their vigil keeping 

Disturb my mound. 

Nor tearful eye wet with emotioned grieving 

Become a slave 
To bitterest passions, vainly conceiving 

The rest I crave, 
The waiting crown that angel hands are weaving 

Beyond the grave. 

When o'er me sad the whippoorwill is calling 

In mournful strain, 
And on my grave the evening dew is falling 

Like gentle rain 
Shall I rejoice in death, no more recalling 

A life of pain. 

When o'er me fierce the wintry winds are blowing 

The faded rose 
That once, as I, a brighter moment knowing 

Now seeks repose 
In sweet oblivion, where tears ceased flowing, 

No griefs disclose. 



118 



Then shall I know no sweeter, fairer ending 

Than that of death 
To a life of sorrows forever blending 

In one sad breath; 
Oh, God ! no dearer gift your hand is sending 

To soothe regret. 

When 'neath the icy hail and bitter snowing 

My grave is white, 
And Winter's wrath God's hand is wildly sowing 

In the dark night, 
At rest at last my vision rapt is knowing 

A fairer sight. 

When in yon vale the lark is sweetly singing 

With matchless breath 
And o'er me fast the gentle buds are springing 

Should I regret 
The endless charms that Spring is widely flinging 

Around me yet? 

Ah, no; I never knew their transient glory, 

My joys were few, 
When the cold earth shorn of its mantle hoary 

In splendor grew, 
Ah, no, alas! Life's sadly bitter story 

Alone I knew. 

Then weep not o'er my humble body lying 

With lifeless breath 
'Neath Summer joys and woes of Winter sighing 

No vain regret; 
Remember thou, that I, when softly dying 

Found rest in death. 



119 



MEMORY 

Softly in the glimmering west a crimson hue 
Like some fair purple gown of rarest make 

Adorns again the erstwhile smiling skies of blue, 
And silence guards the waters of the lake. 

Afar, the whippoorwill's sad notes are gently borne 
On dying breezes faint with rare perfume, 

Each fitful wail e'er rendering more forlorn 
A hapless solitude o'erhung with gloom. 

Alone I sit and sadly gaze o'er meadows green, 
Perchance enraptured by the subtle hand 

Of splendid nature robed, but far from this fair 
scene 
My aching thoughts are in a fairer land. 

Do you remember, love, that distant, happy night 
Of years gone by, when you and I were young ; 

When hand in hand we gazed upon a rarer sight 
And praised the songs then ah! so sweetly sung? 

The sun was setting then, my dear, e'en as it now 
With perfect splendor gilds the western sky, 

Then vying with the wondrous beauty of your brow, 
Ah ! you were happy then and so was I. 

The same sad whippoorwill as now besought our 
praise 

Which with our prayer was freely given; 
Alas! my dear, how memory clings to other days 

And renders sacred one who is in heaven. 

Do you remember, dear, how, as the twilight fell, 
We paused before the gate to say good-bye, 

Though it was dusk I read your tender glances well, 
And then, we fondly parted with a sigh. 



Nay, nay; you cannot answer now, these anguished 
tears 

That trickle slowly down my furrowed cheek 
Awake again the poignant grief of by-gone years 

And force the bitter truth I cannot speak 

With painful steps and thoughts far from this 
charming scene 
Bowed with the deepest grief I sadly tread 
The winding pathway fair that once proclaimed you 
queen, 
Where oft we paused beside the hamlet's dead. 

Ah! e'en as then the quaint church spire still softly 
gleams 
Through moaning boughs swept by the evening 
breeze, 
The old bell tower still there, no different seems 
Than when its chimes pealed 'mid the elm trees. 

E'en as I pause, each silv'ry note unceasing blends 
That calls the village folk to evening prayer, 

Beneath his wonted task the same old sexton bends 
Though years have turned to white his raven 
hair. 

Methinks again, sweetheart, beneath those spreading 
elms. 

Thou walkest, fairest of the countryside, 
But I am wrong, and bitterest grief still o'erwhelms 

My aching heart that mourns for one who died. 

Ah! dearest; how my heart with anguish deep oft 
swells 

While flooding memories cling to scenes of yore, 
Each sacred strain love's broken tale again retells 

In mournful dirge o'er one who is no more. 

121 



Alas! the whippoorwill's sad notes still softly call 
E'en as his ling' ring wail dies on the air, 

Beside thy grave alone I stand, while hot tears fall 
O'er one long since a hapless tenant there. 



122 



HUMANITY 

Let who-so-e'er come to your door 

Turn not in wrath away, 
But bear in mind oft in the poor 

God moulds His noblest clay. 

Then open wide thy welcome door 

That all the poor who stray 
May pause uncensured on thy floor 

And live to bless the day. 

Let not the heartless instinct gain 

The mastery o'er thy mind, 
For every soul thou givest pain 

The Lord will pay in kind. 

Strive to allay Life's bitter pain, 
Sneer not at him who begs, 

For you, yourself, may some day drain 
Life's sorrow to the dregs. 

Let soothing words your motto be, 
Stretch forth a helping hand 

To him who aid has asked of thee 
And not deriding stand; 

For as you measure to the world 

God measures back to you, 
The scorn an angry man has hurled 

His conscience lives to rue. 

Ne'er pass the wretched sinner by, 

Oh, pause, if but to cast 
One kindly glance, one kindred sigh, 

The good they do will last. 



«3 



Let harsh rebuke to others fall, 
'Tis poison framed in speech, 

Speak gently, then, or not at all, 
And practice what you preach. 

If e'er to angry mood inclined 
Just force a pleasant smile, 

'Tis nobler far you'll always find, 
And better worth your while. 

Kind words are spoken ne'er in vain, 

But each its mission hath 
To soothe the soul, to ease the pain 

Oft met with in Life's path. 

The wretched being oft but needs 

One kindly spoken word 
To turn him from the path that leads 

Where tempted souls are lured. 

No fault can e'er be classed so great 
That we may not forgive, 

Meek penance, though 'tis rather late, 
The fault will far outlive. 

One loving glance, one gentle smile 
Will ease a world of pain; 

Life's saddest hours they oft beguile, 
Force sunshine out of rain. 

Dull frowning flees before the laugh 
As leaves in Autumn's gale, 

And grief is lessened by one half 
Where softened words prevail. 



124 



A hasty word in anger spoke 
Hast oft changed smiles to sighs, 

A frowning glance a heart has broke, 
But kindness never dies. 

Then always cheerful try to be 

Though grief should weigh thee down, 

The smile the poor receives from thee 
Will banish someone's frown. 

And always wear a pleasant look, 

You can if you but would; 
Vile, angry speech just scorn to brook, 

Kind words do far more good. 

Then all the world will seem to you 

A paradise e'er more, 
And peace will rest upon your view 

Through Heaven's open door. 



125 



MAY 

Soft from the verdant meadows perfumes steal 
Like whispered words upon the listening ear, 
And all the world enchanted, doth appear 

Enraptured by the holy calm we feel. 

Hail, lovely May, sweet harbinger of Spring, 
Smiling month of verdant fields and flowers, 
Christened by the breath of April's showers, 

Thy sweetness charms the heart of ev'ry thing. 

From yonder grassy vale the lark aspires 
To breathe the sweetest efforts of a song, 
Faint on the breeze his notes are borne along, 

Rarer far than countless blending lyres. 

The timid robin lifts his plaintive voice, 
No sweeter song could mortal wish to hear, 
His every note reminds us Spring is near, 

And drooping hearts revive to soon rejoice. 

I, too, once listened to that charming song 

With something more than pleasure at my heart, 
Glad would I be with this vain world to part, 

Alas! for gentle Spring no more I long. 

Oft doth the pangs of sorrow rend the life 
That once was happy as its days were long, 
O'erflowing once with joyous mirth and song 

To sink at last 'neath hapless grief and strife. 

What are the thoughtless joys of childhood days 
Compared to trials man must undergo; 
The world is full of wrath we do not sow, 

And lurking scorn oft dulls the edge of praise. 



126 



Oft, gentle month, thy fragrance brings relief 
To many hearts less known to care than mine ; 
God grant for them the sun may always shine, 

For me, alas! the tear speaks not my grief. 

Fain would I lay my weary burdens down 
And seek that rest in life I ne'er may gain, 
The heartless hours increase my weight of pain 

And Nature guards my suff'rings with a frown. 

Some distant day may seek my fond release, 
Alas! too soon that moment cannot come, 
A boon to me, abhorred perhaps by some, 

Yet ending all my weary cares in peace. 



127 



TREACHERY OF MONTEITH 

Ten thousand curses on his head, 

Ten thousand on his name, 
Unhonored lies he, cold and dead, 

Who sullied Scotia's fame. 

Yea; cold and still in Death's embrace 

The traitor, Monteith, lies; 
In life abhorred by Scotland's race. 

And scorned by them he dies. 

He sold his native land for gold, 

His dearest friend for fame, 
For him no mourning dirge is tolled, 

Disgraced his very name. 

No gentle hand to close his eyes, 

Deserted now in death 
No mourner lingers near with sighs 

Or tokens of regret. 

No frien< to gaze through honest tears 

Upon h.s upturned face, 
No loving word the death room cheers, 

No vestige of his race. 

No hand to smooth his wearied brow 

That grief has furrowed deep, 
No tears to fall above him now, 

No chant to guard his sleep. 

But coldly sad and silent all, 

A bitter mock'ry now 
'Twould seem hath seized Death's heavy pall 

That settles o'er his brow. 



128 



The setting sun's last splendid gaze 

Doth scorn his wretched bed, 
Where, screened in darkness from his rays, 

Dishonor shrouds the dead. 

Ah! who would sell his honest name 

More dear to him than gold, 
For ill-timed wealth, for hated fame, 

Increased a thousand fold. 

The traitor's grave in ruin lies, 

A spot abhorred by all ; 
The cynosure of scornful eyes 

That sneer at his downfall. 

No passing tribute breathes a spell 

O'er his despised remains, 
No bursts of praise or raptures swell 

To purge life's blackest stains. 

For cursed in life, thrice cursed in death 

By those whom he betrayed 
Shame waits upon his latest breath 

That fear would have delayed. 

Delayed that he with penance meek 

A nobler end might win, 
The pardon of his nation seek 

Forgiveness of his sin. 

Alas! the man who waits for death 

To right his grievous sins 
Has nothing left but vain regret 

When the Reaper's task begins. 

Oh ! who would die as traitors die, 

Scorned by the entire world, 
To have in place of tear and sigh 

Contempt upon them hurled. 
129 



If such a human creature lives 

Beware of Monteith's fate ; 
The injured nation ne'er forgives 

When once aroused to hate. 

Learn then to tread a righteous path 

And scorn life's evil ways, 
The more you strive to stay God's wrath 

The more you seek His praise. 

Perchance the soul of Wallace breathes 

Forgiveness from on high, 
But who is there that pines and grieves 

When Monteith learns to die! 

His countrymen condemn his birth, 

His memory they despise, 
The meanest creature on the earth 

Far nobler in their eyes. 



I3C 



THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL 

Mute now it hangs upon the wall 

To gleam at mem'ry's will, 
The sword that answered freedom's call, 

The sword of Bunker Hill. 

With rust the sturdy blade is dim 
That once with blood was red, 

When 'neath the pealing battle hymn 
It flashed above the dead. 

Where thundering cannon rudely spoke 
It pierced the heart and brain 

Swift as the lightning's deadly stroke 
Doth rend the sky in twain. 

Where charged the crimson-coated foes 

Across the bloody field, 
Before the valor of its blows 

The vaunted Saxons reeled. 

Above the battle's deaf'ning roar 

Aloft with valiant pride 
A gallant hand that weapon bore 

By Warren's sturdy side. 

A hand that guided once the plough 
O'er staunch New England soil, 

A hand, a heart, a noble brow, 
That lived by honest toil. 

Thus the son of seventy-five 
Had spurned the foreign yoke 

Beneath which foes had bade him strive 
Till one stout heart had broke. 



I3i 



But sturdy as the soil he trod, 

With breast that knew no fear, 
He left his home in care of God 

And sought the conflict near. 

He spurned the ploughshare for the sword, 

The sickle for the gun, 
When Britain's armies swiftly poured 

Their hosts on Lexington. 

And when the red-coats from the bay 

Charged with a scornful glance 
Behind the breastworks stern he lay 

And watched their lines advance. 

How well he fought the foe that day 

His lonely sword will tell, 
For where that morn he stoutly lay 

At noon he bravely fell. 

He strove to die and not to yield, 

Their power he defied, 
They found him on the battlefield 

Where he had nobly died. 

His sword was lying by his side 

Where he had let it fall, 
They took it home, his Nation's pride, 

And hung it on the wall. 

And there it hung through countless years, 

And there it hangs to-day, 
To bring us back with mem'ry's tears 

To that far distant day. 



132 



When flashed its steel at freedom's call, 

To wave defiance, till 
Its owner, pierced by British ball 

Expired on Bunker Hill. 

All honor to that precious blade, 

Let time revere it still, 
Its might a stalwart Nation made 

On grim old Bunker Hill. 



133 



MY BESSIE 

No blossom fairer ever grew, 
Nor e'en this wide world ever knew 
A maiden half so fair as you, 
My Bessie. 

Your face is like the dawn of morn, 
No fairer brow the sun shone on, 
And sadness reigned when you had gone, 
My Bessie. 

Thine eyes of Heaven's rarest blue 
Matched roguish lips of crimson hue, 
And dimpled cheeks so rosy, too, 
My Bessie. 

Sweet was the gracious smile thou gave, 
No rarer gift a king might crave, 
Alas! that smile made me thy slave, 
My Bessie. 

How in my youth I gazed on thee 
And yet thou answered not my plea, 
Nor love within my eyes could see, 
My Bessie. 

Ah; would that thou hadst only known 
How fond my love for thee had grown, 
How longed I to call thee my own, 
My Bessie. 

Ah; sadly falls the silent tear 
That mourns the loss of one so dear; 
That voice I never more can hear, 
My Bessie. 



134 



I still can see thy charming face, 
A vision time can ne'er replace, 
For life has almost run its race, 
My Bessie. 

Alas; I journey on through life 
Forsaken, racked by hidden strife, 
And thou — perhaps another's wife, 
My Bessie. 

E'en so, the love within my heart 
Shall never from thy memory part 
Though every pang fresh tears doth start, 
My Bessie. 

And when this form is laid away 
Deep in the grave, a lifeless clay, 
Ah! thither may thy footsteps stray, 
My Bessie. 



135 



MALVERN HILL 

"Now forward, men!" with flashing eye the Union 

leader spoke, 
As flushed with eager pride dashed they headlong 

through fire and smoke; 
The bullets rained about them fast, the cannon 

thundered still 
As onward plunged his gallant men up Malvern's 

awful hill. 

A thousand cries were stilled in death, and yet a 
thousand more, 

"Now forward, seize those rebel guns; that rebel 
standard lower!" 

Alas! the lines of gray advance, the bugle sharp and 
shrill, 

Resounds the deafening Southern charge, on Mal- 
vern's fatal hill. 

Thrice did the solid ranks of gray assail the Union 
front ; 

Thrice did the ragged lines of blue uphold the bat- 
tle's brunt; 

Their cheers undaunted rend the air, their hearts 
with fervor thrill, 

What if they die? Their lives are but the price of 
Malvern Hill. 

And who would not give up his life to stem the dire 
disgrace 

That spread its gloomy pall above the pride of man- 
hood's race! 

What nobler cause could they aspire than cher- 
ished graves to fill 

Upon the bloodstained battle slopes of grim old 
Malvern Hill. 

136 



Again the bugle sounds the charge, again the ranks 
advance 

With death and bitter hatred flashed in every burn- 
ing glance; 

What though the rebels' blades are keen, what 
though their bullets kill? 

'Tis nobler far to die than yield on Malvern's bleed- 
ing hill. 

"May God protect the Union flag," the Northern 

troopers cried 
As one by one they wounded fell and one by one 

they died. 
Aye; high above the battle's smoke and proudly 

floating still 
The Union stars and stripes waved o'er the brow 

of Malvern Hill. 

The cannon thundered from their heights and flashed 

a warning cry 
To all who saw the lurid glare of war bright in the 

sky. 
Alas! for those whose ghastly forms with brows so 

calm and still 
Gleamed through the maddening smoke and hell of 

Malvern's bloody hill. 

Their's was the sleep of righteous death, the weary 
gray and blue 

But one immortal Judge was left to choose between 
the two, 

And choosing, He who made them both by His su- 
premist will, 

Reclaimed the stricken heroes of the strife at Mal- 
vern Hill. 



137 



Both fought for what they thought was right; both 
died a noble death; 

Both cheered the flag their comrades bore with mar- 
tyr's dying breath, 

And though the one brave heart was wrong, his 
name is sacred still, 

He fought for love and duty on the slopes of Mal- 
vern Hill. 

The weary years roll slowly on and swiftly one by 

one 
Like Springtime's blossoms wilting in the Autumn's 

setting sun 
The hoary veterans yield at last to one Almighty 

will, 
And meet God as they met the foe on Malvern's 

bloody hill. 



us 



LOVE'S DREAM 

Oh ! I strayed all alone while the twilight was falling 

By the waters reflecting the moon's gentle beam, 

And I fancied, my love, that your soft voice was 

calling 

In the night's dewy breath wafted o'er the pale 

stream. 

Ah! were it not fancy, then with heart all elated 
Would I seek thee, my fair one, to pour forth 
my love, 
And like the lone pilgrim whom the storm hath 
belated. 
Would I trust for my answer in Him who's 
above. 

But alas! far away from my darling I languish, 
And I sigh for the rose that once swayed in the 
breeze, 
Whose shy crimson blushes made my heart throb 
with anguish ; 
Oh! my thoughts speak of one far beyond the 
blue seas. 

In the fields as I stray in the bright, early morning. 
The flowers all droop sadly and something tells me 

When the tread of the stranger their glances are 
scorning 
They are pining, my sweetheart, in sorrow, for thee. 

Though dark seas may divide us and the ocean's 

dull roar 

In low, mournful cadence still break on my ear, 

The mem'ries I cherish e'er shall grieve more and 

more, 

And mingle their sadness with the soft falling tear. 

139 



A DREAM AND A VISION 

Oh! I rested one day near a clear crystal fountain 
Springing forth from the ground 'neath the foot 
of a tree, 
Where shadows descending from a high, rugged 
mountain 
Cast a pall o'er the waters that sparkled with 
glee. 

All unconscious I sat as the low, drowsy murmur 
Of bees with their treasures now invaded the 
air, 
And I dreamed while slumber would impress me 
the firmer, 
That a maiden stood by me, most charming and 
fair. 

Ah; her eyes were of blue like the clear blue adorn- 
ing 
Oft the bright smiling skies of a mild summer's 
day, 
While her cheeks like the gay rosy hue of the morn- 
ing 
Were deep-tinted with red where the shy blushes 
play. 

And her teeth shone like pearls from the depths of 
the ocean, 
'Neath the lips, ruby red, that her laughter had 
curved ; 
Ah! vain Cupid in all his entrancing devotion 
No mistress as charming could ever have served. 

I awoke with a start when the sun brightly shining 

High above in the pale azure dome of the skies 

Spread his myriad rays where fair Nature reclining 

Seemed radiant with beauty that dazzled my 

eyes. 

140 



In the stillness the low sil'vry laugh of a maiden 
Floated full on the breeze wafted back from the 
hills, 
And the calm, tranquil air with its echoes was laden 
While my fond beating heart answered back with 
soft thrills. 

Quick I sprang to my feet, for her bright glances 
taunted, 
But she glided from view with a shy, wreathing 
smile ; 
Alas! how my mem'ry that vision has haunted, 
My dull, lonely hours it has served to beguile. 

For the maidenly form clad in )'outh's crowning 

glory 

Was the image of one whom I loved all in vain ; 

Thus, alas! twice renewed was shy Cupid's sad 

story, 

Many love oft with joy but too often with pain. 



141 



MELANCHOLY 

Love like the tiny mountain sprite 
Oft steals upon us in the night, 

Blissful dream. 
Filling two hearts with untold joy 
Shy, blushing maiden, ardent boy, 

Plot and scheme. 

Ah, would that I, as young and free 
And happy as that pair could be 

And as gay, 
Old I may seem though young in years, 
For grief has changed my smile to tears. 

My hair to gray. 

Grief, too, has bowed my weary head 
All hope has vanished, Love is dead, 

Still I live. 
Oh; that my God would gaze on me 
And then in answer to my plea 

Mercy give. 

Alas; I falter in the road, 
E'er bent beneath my bitter load 

Of sorrow. 
Sharp thorns have paved my weary way, 
For rest and peace come not to-day 

Or morrow. 

Thus through this life I journey on 
All of my old ambition gone, 

Death I crave, 
For death alone can end my grief 
No wonder then I seek relief 

In the grave. 



142 



THE OLD COW PATH 

Ah; it used to lead across the fields where verdant 
blossoms grew. 

Where in the early breaking morn they glistened 
in the dew 

That from the azure skies above in perfumed melt- 
ing showers 

Wooed the fragrance deep and lasting oft of the 
Springtime flowers. 

Through the woodland, deep and sombre, where 
the moaning elm trees 

Swayed their massive boughs in answer to the woo- 
ing of the breeze, 

Thence beyond the gently sloping vale a winding 
course it took 

Till it crossed the rude, old-fashioned bridge that 
arched the running brook. 

Oft as the twilight shadows fell and my daily tasks 

were done 
Mute I stood beside that rustic bridge and watched 

the setting sun. 
Oh; how little then I knew of life, its worldly 

cares and wrath, 
When as homeward bound I used to toil along the 

old cow path. 

Ah ; those mem'ries of my childhood, how they cast 

a wistful charm 
O'er the happy hours made sacred on that old New 

England farm. 
Once again, a tender vision wakes, when sorrows 

curb their wrath, 
And my sire's guiding voice I hear, along the old 

cow path. 

143 



Just beyond the stout old oaken bars that opened 

from the lane, 
Oft I seem to see his sturdy form and hear his 

voice again. 
Aye; that cheery voice now still, alas; these many 

weary years, 
For his name alone is sacred in the silent flow of 

tears. 

In the little village churchyard where the crooning 
whippoorwill 

Wakes the breathless calm of even when the coun- 
tryside is still, 

There he lies beneath the sodden ground, a fairer 
home he hath, 

And his sturdy steps resound no more upon the old 
cow path. 

There my mother, too, is sleeping, deep down in her 

lonely bed; 
There, too, God grant, my form shall rest when 

I'm numbered with the dead. 
Yea; when life is ebbing fast away with death the 

aftermath, 
May my weary eyes close once for all upon the old 

cow path. 

Many years have passed since last I trod upon its 

yielding soil; 
Long years of bitterest hardships, w r eary years of 

pain and toil. 
Yet I wonder if it still is there, if still that charm 

it hath 
As oft when young I used to toil along the old cow 

path. 



144 



Yea; and if that little schoolhouse that topped the 

neighboring hill 
Is standing where it used to stand, echoing boyish 

laughter still. 
If some mischievous youthful swain now plots where 

once I sat 
Gazing out with fondest rapture then upon the old 

cow path. 

Ah! to-night I sit and ponder in the silence of my 

room, 
And the softly dying firelight casts weird shadows 

in the gloom. 
Slowly one by one they fade away; their flight no 

sorrow hath 
Till my eyes with longing gaze again upon the old 

cow path. 

Oh ; would that my footsteps back again could wend 

their joyous way 
To the rustic little hamlet where I first saw light 

of day. 
Oh; to see the daisies bloom again: to hear the 

thrushes sing, 
And see the radiant fields and vales alive again with 

Spring. 

Years may come and deeper sorrow rest upon my 

weary brow, 
And the hand of Time may banish all the joy of 

living, now, 
But age can never alter, nor can poverty's direst 

wrath 
Blast that simple, childish longing for my boyhood's 

old cow path. 



145 



RETROSPECTION 

To-day the last brown leaves are softly falling 
Lifeless to Autumn's cold and barren ground, 
And, in lingering sadness all around 

Now breathes alas; the Winter's cheerless calling. 

To-day my heart is veiled in heavy sorrow, 
As list I to the moaning of the breeze, 
Murmuring overhead in withered trees, 

Weighed with bitterest tidings of the morrow. 

When once again in yonder orchard meeting 
Beneath the dreary sighing of the boughs, 
Where we had plighted oft love's sweetest vows, 

Shall we in sorrow take our farewell greeting. 

There oft in Spring the radiant skies above 
Shone brightly with a tender, spotless hue; 
When every thought was, dear, of you, 

And every sound to me was one of love. 

There, too, in days gone by, with perfume rarest 
The apple blossoms fluttered to the ground 
And nestled in the grass without a sound, 

And all the dawning world seemed at its fairest. 

And as if its little breast were freed from strife 
The lark was sweetly singing overhead, 
And all that through the Winter long lay dead 

Sprang swiftly into beauty and to life. 

Ah! that we should meet again and here, to part 
Where we had learned to love in rural peace. 
Must all these ardent raptures sadly cease? 

Yea; and must we bear the longing of the heart? 



146 



To part, perhaps forever; God only knows, 
For life is ever at the stern command 
Of Him who makes or crushes with His hand 

The mountain or the smallest flower that grows. 

Be it so, then, dear, accept my last good-byes, 
And though thy gentle heart should some day 

yearn, 
And though my footsteps nevermore return, 

Pray forget the tears now glist'ning in my eyes. 

And lifeless shall I here forget, but not above, 
The gentle eyes that once looked into mine 
With tender glow, with loving light divine, 

Ah! there shall I wait for thee, my only love. 

FOLLY 

The miser who in life does naught but save 
To leave his all behind him at the grave 
Reminds me of the man, who once in love, 
Trifled with that gift inspired above. 
For two young maidens, both with luring art, 
Had long lain siege to his devoted heart, 
And, loving both, between he could not choose, 
For wedding one, the other he must lose; 
So doth he leave the question of his fate, 
The choosing for him of his future mate 
For time to plan, but ere could time decide 
Each maiden, growing old, became a bride, 
And he, who with a weak and selfish mind 
Which to either's fairer charms remained blind, 
Who, to choose between his loves, had been loath, 
In clinging to the two, thus lost them both. 



147 



DEATH OF NAPOLEON 

In the far off St. Helena, the stricken monarch lay, 
His life tide ebbing slowly as still slowly ebbs the 

day; 
The blood red glow of sunset as it sparkled on the 

pane 
Streamed in and glinted strangely on his worn and 

wasted frame. 

His lips had lost their firmness but the light of 

former days 
Still blazed 'neath active eyelids that lo! in the sun's 

last rays 
Had lost their tired drooping and alert with haughty 

pride 
Betokened that the exile lived though cherished 

hopes had died. 

Ah! something in his bosom smote the dying man 

with grief, 
His voice rose low in murmurs as in search of vain 

relief, 
A sad, wan smile of sorrow twitched the corners of 

his mouth 
And rising on his elbow ere the spark of life burned 

out — 

"I am dying, Frenchmen, dying," now spake he, 

sad and low, 
And his face all pale and ghastly for a moment 

caught the glow 
That on the field of battle 'mid the roar of grape 

and shell 
Had held in check the eager foe who sank beneath 

its spell. 



148 



And he wonders, half in fancy, if those whom he 

once led 
Will seek his grave in sorrow when his fragile form 

is dead; 
Will they follow him at parting, who led them to 

the fray, 
When Victory lays her sword down, weeping o'er 

his lifeless clay? 

Ah, yes; in broken numbers still he sees the old 

guard near 
But the eager eye of battle is dimmed now with a 

tear, 
One by one the grizzled soldiers who cheered him 

in war's strife 
March on in death behind him as he led them once 

in life. 

A moment only, happy, then his face is drawn with 

woe 
As he pictures in his anguish the last and fatal 

blow ; 
His cheeks are flushed and burning with the only 

shame he knew 
And his memory is reviving the scenes of Waterloo. 

"If Blucher had but stayed away," his face is bit- 
ter now, 

While thoughts of Grouchy's tardy aid bring stern- 
ness to his brow, 

Alas ! the world is ever thus and hopes we prize too 
much 

Like victories when within our grasp oft vanish at 
our touch. 



149 



The glare of burning Moscow fills the dying sol- 
dier's eyes 

And he shudders as the red flames mount higher in 
the skies, 

Anon his face is ashen 'neath the rigors of retreat, 

And he sees his soldiers falling dead and dying at 
his feet. 

In Russia's bleak and cheerless snows, their bodies 
worn and thin 

Present unspoken bitter woes that war hath ushered 
in; 

Countless drawn features, pinched with want, and 
drooping eyelids set 

Peer forth from great white barren wastes, con- 
vulsed in throes of death. 

The tinge of sadness deepens in the exiled mon- 
arch's face, 

Anon his heart is pleading for the welfare of his 
race, 

Again that flush of eager pride steals through the 
saddened hues 

And the pulse of mighty victory its changing course 
pursues. 

Across the snowy-laden Alps, in pathways of suc- 
cess, 

Braving unkown perils and dangers and scorning 
gaunt distress, 

His course is ever onward — then, alas, he breathes 
a sigh; 

"All is over! I am dying, friends; Paris — France 
— good-bye." 



150 



WHEN THOU HAST GROWN OLD 

Friend ; when thou hast grown old, and sad, and 
weary, 

And life has parted from its youthful way; 
Remember of the joys now grown so dreary 

That cherished passion of a distant day. 

Remember, when within thy heart is stealing 
The first unhappy thought of ageing years ; 

Remember still that soft, that tender feeling, 
That it may stem the tide of flowing tears. 

Whene'en thy step, that once with youth was spring- 
ing, 

Now totters on with slow and painful stride, 
And every year its bitter cares is bringing 

To cast their burden by thy weary side; 

When eyes are dim that once with pride were glow- 
ing; 

And youth, alas! has aged unto decay, 
And thou art reaping grief not of thy sowing, 

And life is but a mournful yesterday; 

When thou hast felt the winter of existence 
Embrace thee with a cold, unfeeling grasp, 

And every little joy with stern persistence 
Eludes thy vain and sadly longing clasp; 

Turn to the one who by thy side still lingers, 
That gentle heart thou wooed so long ago; 

And clasping in thy hand her loving fingers, 
Forget each passing year, forget its woe. 

Remember only thy infinite gladness 

When first thou claimed her as a loving bride, 

And remembering, spurn the longing sadness 
That, too, alas! would linger by thy side. 

151 



Alone of all the friends who eased thy sorrow 
Doth she, thy cherished sweetheart, still remain 

To conquer griefs of each to-day and morrow 
By matching love against each bitter pain. 



152 



TO A WILD RED ROSE 

Gentle flower: sweet harbinger of Spring, 

Smiling in the transient hours of early dawn. 

What blissful memories doth thy blossoms bring, 
And what beauty is in thy sweet presence born. 

Like a vision from the skies is thy rare smile 
So charming that my saddened thoughts rejoice; 

Oft the lonely hours of life doth thou beguile 
With a faultless beauty that no tongue can voice. 

When in the morn I stray in yonder fields 

Oft thy cherished fragrance fills the balmy air; 

Naught but dearest love for thee, my bosom shields, 
Fain would my wandering footsteps linger there. 

In vain do other passing scenes disclose 

Their guileless raptures to this world of scorn, 

But thou, alone, my little wild red rose, 

To move the heart thy soulful charms were born. 

Other flowerets gay, perhaps as fair, 

Linger in the shade where rests the falling dew, 
But thou, of all, possess that beauty rare 

That thou alone and only thou e'er knew. 

And when at last no more can I recall 

Thy raptured greeting where first thy joys I 
found, 
And one by one thy tiny leaflets fall 

To tender ruin on a faithless ground, 

May I, too, leave this dreary world of pain 
And like thee, all forgotten be my grave, 

And resurrected e'en as thou, live once again 
Far nobler for the humble life I gave. 

153 



WEARY 

I weary of this life, its fruitless labors 

And endless load, 
For luck and I have long been distant neighbors 

On Fortune's road. 

I weary of this strife and hapless sorrow, 

Each dawning day 
Bears tidings of a dark and sadder morrow 

E'er on its way. 

I weary of Life's crop, that stunted growing 

Shall never yield. 
Of reaping naught for years of patient sowing 

In this vain field. 

And sick at heart I am forever straying 

O'er barren ways, 
While parted lips in anguish deep are praying 

For brighter days. 

For me no cloud hath e'er a silv'ry lining 

To cheer my eyes; 
Long years ago the sun for me ceased shining 

Through rifted skies. 

My restless feet have long grown weak and weary, 

I know no rest; 
Still of my efforts to this world so dreary, 

I give my best. 

But all in vain, for from my wretched sowing 

I ne'er shall reap. 
Ah! wouldst my soul rejoice in ever knowing 

Eternal sleep. 



154 



For I am old, and all the world is sighing 

With vain regret. 
God grant me this, my only hope when dying — 

A happy death. 

The end is near, Life's sun is slowly setting 

In western skies, 
And tears of joy in silence now are wetting 

My closing eyes. 

Soon shall the world that shone through prisoned 
grating 

Forget me, save 
As the still, cold corpse thus in death awaiting 

Its humble grave. 



TO MARGARET 

When God thy being didst create 

By impulse driven. 
Thy form He from His angels traced, 
And in thine eyes He must have placed 

The light of heaven. 

An angel to this earth He sent 

Fresh from His fond embrace, 
For from the beauty at command 
Sought He the rarest in His land 
And moulded thy sweet face. 

Aye; fairer than the sunset rays 
That shine through prison bars, 

Is that soft glow from tender eyes 

Revealing where in secret lies 
The beauty of the stars. 



155 



LIFE'S NOBLEST PATH 

The good you do will outlive you 

And make a world regret you ; 
The bad will make your dying sad, 

And help all to forget you. 

The golden deed in time of need 
Will make your mem'ry cherished ; 

But who shall praise your evil ways 
When you have sadly perished. 

Each noble thought, each good deed wrought 

Shall merit praise undying; 
But fame is blind to that weak mind 

Beneath the tombstone lying. 

The gentle word that kindness lured 
Will strew your grave with flowers; 

But wrath alone you can't atone 
In life's last bitter hours. 

If you would leave behind to grieve 
A w T orld that watched your labors, 

Then while alive forever strive 
To help your fallen neighbors. 



i 5 6 



ERIN 

Oh, Erin! thou pearl of the far distant ocean; 

Thou gem of the waters sun kissed and serene, 
And shrine of the exile's expiring devotion, 

E'er clad in thy verdure of emerald green. 

Thrice blest with the gifts of luxuriant beauty 
And hallowed by thoughts of a glorious past, 

Hard though thy lot is and repulsive thy duty 
Encircled thy charms in the enemy's grasp. 

Bowed though thy aged peasant and sadly forsaken 
By friends who in youth paused to question his 
sigh, 
Yet shall thy mute harp soon exultant awaken 
To echo sweet strains lest fair Freedom should 
die. 

For Freedom still sleeps in the heart of thy moun- 
tains, 
It plays in the breezes that beat on thy shores, 
It perfumes thy meadows, it springs from thy foun- 
tains, 
And companions the lark as it heavenward soars. 



It throbs in the heart of the stout Irish peasant, 
And it brightens the exile's proud, haughty gaze s 

Its whispers have made his sad sojourn more pleas- 
ant 
As rays from the sun will the darkest of days. 

Erin! Oh, Erin! thy sad yoke is oppressing, 

But hopes comes each morning its light to renew, 
Then banish with patience all omens distressing 
And strive for the freedom your ancient days 
knew. 

157 



Then mild be the years on the fair, blushing island 
And gentle the fall of the clear, glist'ning dew 

That sprinkles each meadow, each valley and high- 
land 
'Neath skies all resplendent with dawn's rosy hue. 

Oh ; spare the dear blossom that blooms on the water 

Thou chill wintry wind, as in anger thou speed 
O'er the sea as it mourns with its sad, weeping 
daughter, 
With brow drooping low like some fair broken 
reed. 

The wind answered not as the grim desolation 
Appealed to his senses, so bleak and unkind, 

But fawned as he passed on the grief-stricken nation 
With breath all expressive of woe left behind. 

So may the whole world all its mercies combining 
Look down on the meek, forlorn isle of unrest, 

Where Liberty, chained but alive, is reclining 
Defiantly waving her proud, valiant crest. 

VAIN HOPE 

Vain hope is like the falling of a star 

That for a moment flashes from afar 

A moment only, and brighter growing, 

Yet how swiftly from our vision going 

Outlined against the azure of the sky, 

A gorgeous panorama to the eye, 

Till, with the subtle suddenness of death, 

Its trail of living fire we soon regret, 

For where the dark clouds the blue skies sever, 

Its flash is brightest, then gone forever. 



158 



PONDER 

Ponder, ere you would rebuke, 

Let patient judgment teach 
That you may long regret the word 
That sudden anger foully lured 

Into the form of speech. 

Ponder, lest you lose a friend 

By thoughtless word or deed, 
For as you journey on through life 
The prey of constant bitter strife 
Firm friends are what you need. 

Ponder, ere your angry glance 

The evil has begun, 
For oft when on Life's ocean tossed 
A scornful frown the day has lost 

Which laughter would have won. 

Ponder, ere you would reply 

In anger or in scorn, 
To smooth away from Life's stern path 
Ill-omened thorns of hasty wrath 

Was patience wisely born. 

Ponder, lest a thoughtless act 
Would later cause you pain, 

The good you've done its crown has won 

But evil when 'tis once begun 
Is hard to right again. 



159 



THE EXILE 

Oh! disturb not the grave where the exile is lying 
In Death's cold embraces forgotten and lone; 

Where the bleak wintry winds as they pass wildly 
sighing 
Forget their harsh mission and pensively moan. 

For all England's stern yoke could not bow thy soul 

under, 

Thou, proud, martyred son of the fairest of isles, 

And the land that thy stern foes would fain rend 

asunder 

Still lives to bequeath thee her saddest of smiles. 

Far away on the cold desert sands of an island 

Stern silence stands guard o'er thy rough, lowlv 
bed, 
Save when the fierce vulture sweeping down from 
the highland 
Oft chants its weird dirge o'er the grave of the 
dead. 

When the first flush of dawn, charming sunset of 
morning, 
Gilds the broad ocean wave with its bright, tran- 
sient glow, 
When the pale azure blue of the heavens is dawn- 
ing 
And dull mists have vanished from earth far 
below. 



1 60 



Ah! then like a rose 'mid the wastes of the heather 
Still blooms the lone grave on that bleak foreign 
shore, 
Scarred not by time fleeting not the wrath of the 
weather, 
Still shielding the breast that will know life no 
more. 

Alas ! there when the soft shades of twilight are fall- 
ing, 
And dark clouds of even creep o'er the pale sky, 
Then how sadly the plover's shrill music is calling, 
E'er mourning for him whom they brought there 
to die. 

Yea; and oft when the pale rays of Luna descending 
Would hallow thy grave with their fair, transient 
flame, 

Oh! harken, ye sad winds, to that tale never ending, 
He died all alone, but he died not in vain. 

For the cause he espoused still doth live on forever 

Though the grasp of the tyrants shall trail in the 

dust, 

The standard of freedom and their flaunting hands 

sever 

The last ray of hope, the staunch patriot's trust. 



161 



MY LITTLE SWEETHEART 

Two eyes bright as the heaven's blue, 
That laughter's seeds are sowing; 

Two cheeks of softest crimson hue 
Like ripened roses glowing. 

A brow white as the driven snows 
Fresh from the skies above her; 

The quaintest little turned up nose 
That somehow makes me love her. 

Two lips red as the cherries grow, 
Whose smile is Love's best teacher; 

The sweetest little mouth I know 
God ever gave to creature. 

Two rows of tiny pearls beneath 
That flash in merry laughter; 

She is the only lass I meet 
Who leaves a longing after. 

Two feet that fairies well might boast, 

So small, so cute and elfish ; 
Of all my friends, I love her most, 

With love stanch and unselfish. 

Two hands that working never cease, 
Though fruitless all their labor; 

Her smile would bring unto their knees 
Both king and humblest neighbor. 

She's dearer to me far than gold, 

And to you also, may be, 
This little sweetheart, three years old, 

And someone's blue-eyed baby. 



162 



AHR 13 19U 



One copy del, to Cat. Div. 



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